


One For Sorrow

by Ravenstone



Series: A Murder of Magpies [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 61,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Het story, OFC. Bodie and Doyle have to babysit a retired assassin, but Cowley uses the opportunity to draw out the would-be assassin. Torture and violence, and one explicit sex scene.</p><p>Bodie and Doyle take their charge from one 'safe' place to another, but cannot shake the would-be assassins. The undeniable conclusion is that there is a leak somewhere. As they try various way of shaking their pursuers, they find out more about the mysterious assassin they are protecting, trying to find out who would want her dead and why. They question whether someone with a past like her deserves to be saved. Eventually, they are forced into a dangerous situation in order to draw their pursuers out. Doyle is forced to question his normally immutable sense of black and white, right and wrong. They find out the leak and the pursuers, but the price might be the life of the one they are paid to protect.</p><p>And what do you call assassins who accuse assassins anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The silver 3.0L Capri slewed sideways around the tight corner, tyres screaming in complaint. The driver released the steering wheel with one hand to throw the gear stick down before resuming his firm yet relaxed grip on the wheel, his right foot easing carefully from heel and toe position to full acceleration. His handsome face, pale skin a stark contrast to his almost black hair, was set in concentration, the dark blue eyes hard.

Ahead of him, a white Mark II Escort RS2000 with a black vinyl roof performed a similar manoeuvre, the back end of the car snaking as the tyres fought for grip under the powerful acceleration of the 2 litre engine. Seemingly hell-bent on collision, the two cars howled towards each other. At the last second, tyres screeched and the cars sinuously weaved to a halt under heavy braking.

The cars stopped, barely two inches between the front bumpers.

Calmly, the two drivers got out. The taller, darker-haired man - the driver of the Capri - straightened his pale jacket with calm confidence, while the RS driver, a shorter, wiry framed man sporting shaggy reddish brown hair, slouched almost carelessly towards the front of the Capri.

They examined the gap with the air of connoisseurs before their eyes met. The dark blue eyes twinkled with sudden laughter.

“Reckon you bottled it there, Doyle,” he said, with the beginning of a sly grin.

Ray Doyle looked away, a wry smile on his face and laughter in his green eyes.

“Not me, mate. I’ve every faith. I just reckon you can’t see over that huge compensation you call a bonnet.”

A black eyebrow arched. “Compensation?”

“Must be,” Doyle insisted with a grin. “Why else would you drive it?”

William Andrew Philip Bodie raised a finger in warning as he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a harsh, heavily accented Scottish voice interrupted.

“Bodie. Doyle.”

Both heads whipped around, all amusement dropped in an instant.

“When you’ve quite finished.” The old man’s lips were pursed. George Cowley, head of CI5, did not approve of frivolous displays of bravado. Gruff, professional to the point of callousness, the grim ex-MI5 Scot found nothing amusing about playing games with the lives of those under his command. That did not mean he hesitated to do so, however.

Suitably subdued, Bodie and Doyle quickened their pace up the steps to meet their dark eyed boss.

“You called, sir?” Bodie’s voice held a combination of deference and roguish humour.

“Aye, I did,” Cowley agreed. “Babysitting duties, gentlemen.” He ignored the irritated sighs and rolled eyes of the two men in front of him. Doyle twisted in annoyance, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans.

“What have we done to deserve this?” Bodie asked with a boyish whine.

Cowley cocked a finger at his two operatives, indicating for them to follow, as he turned on his heel and strode away. Despite his limp, Cowley walked like a man with too many things to do and not enough time.

“This is different,” he said, his clipped voice trailing behind him.

“Different how, sir?” Doyle asked, sharing a look with his partner.

“This target doesn’t want protection,” Cowley replied.

“Then why…”

“I said she doesn’t want it, 3-7, not that she doesn’t need it.” Cowley’s voice cut across Bodie’s question with a sharp authority. “Have either of you heard of the Magpie?” There was a slight hesitancy in Cowley’s voice; something that surprised both of the agents trailing in his wake.

“Bird of the corvidae family,” Bodie began. “Traditionally seen as a harbinger of death.”

“When did you become such an expert?” Doyle mocked.

Bodie grinned. “Suzanne. In Accounts. She likes a spot of bird watching at the weekends.”

“So do you.”

“Years of experience at it, me,” Bodie agreed.

“Not that kind of magpie,” Cowley snapped, interrupting their banter. Bodie fell smoothly into business mode.

“Assassin, sir. One of the best.” His voice assumed the clipped, precise rhythm he adopted whenever he was relaying information. “Been in operation about 10 years.”

Cowley led them to one of the interview rooms. A wall of glass occupied one side of the room, allowing them to see into the room next door. They stood in semi-darkness, the only light coming through the glass from the room beyond.

“All I know is the nursery rhyme,” Doyle chipped in. “One for sorrow, two for joy…”

“Aye,” Cowley said with a resigned sigh. “And three for a girl.” He nodded, directing their attention to the brightly lit interview room viewed through the glass.

Inside the room stood a woman, leaning back against the wall opposite the one-way mirror. All she would have been able to see was her own reflection, but she gave a very clear sign that she knew she was being watched. Long raven black hair, glinting blue in the stark white lights, was tied back from her face in a severe pony tail. She wore tight fitting blue jeans with a white sleeveless vest top and trainers. A medium sized rucksack sat on the floor by her feet. She stared at her own reflection as though seeing through it to the observation room beyond. Dark blue eyes shone in the pale face; eyes as uncommunicative as the mirror she stared through.

“The Magpie’s after her?” Bodie asked, wondering what was so important about the slightly built woman.

Cowley turned his dour grey eyes on him.

“No, laddie,” he said softly. “She _is_ the Magpie.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances, but Cowley carried on. “I’ve received information that says she’s been targeted, so I’ve called her in.”

“She on the books?” Doyle asked, a flicker of a frown crossing his face.

“Strictly _off_ the books, 4-5,” he replied, his voice low. “You never wondered why our intelligence on foreign hit-men and assassinations attempts was so good?”

“She’s been feeding us information,” Bodie said, understanding.

“Aye. And taking on the odd special assignment.” Cowley’s glance spoke volumes. “You don’t seem surprised, 3-7,” the Controller’s voice held a hint of amusement.

“About what, sir?”

“About the Magpie being a woman.”

Bodie shrugged. “Just as capable, sir,” he said, with carefully modulated flippancy.

“Aye,” Cowley said. “Well, I know this one. As well as anyone can.” The grey eyes were dark as they watched the woman in the other room. “I know her training, her background…”

Bodie gave a sideways look to Doyle. “With respect, sir, the Magpie’s always been rather….aloof…among her kind.”

“One for sorrow,” Doyle chipped in.

Grey eyes flashed. “I know that, laddie,” Cowley snapped. He gave a sigh and turned back to the door. “Ach well. Come on.” They turned to follow, but on the threshold, he stopped to look back at them.

“Do you reckon you can take her?” he asked softly.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks. Doyle glanced back at the woman and gave a shrug before turning back to Cowley. “Difficult to say, sir,” he volunteered. “She’s small, looks light, but there’s muscle there.”

Bodie nodded his agreement.

“Aye, you’re right to be cautious,” Cowley replied. “But be ready for my signal.” He turned back and left the room. The two agents gave a shrug and followed.

Magpie pushed herself upright as the door opened. Bodie, a tall, black haired man with the eyes of a killer, held the door as Cowley and Doyle entered. Bodie noticed with approval the professional look she gave him and Doyle as they took up station behind Cowley. Her appraisal was quick and subtle, her eyes not lingering on them but instead turning to Cowley with a smile that only seemed to touch the edges of her dark blue eyes.

Doyle watched her carefully, his keen copper’s intellect noting the smooth way she moved, her weight perfectly balanced; but there was something else behind those strange blue, almost violet, eyes.

“Mr. Cowley,” she said in greeting, her hand outstretched. Bodie instinctively braced himself at the familiarity, but Cowley shook hands with her warmly.

“Glad you could make it, Magpie.” The Scot’s burr was friendly, but she noticed a slight edge to his voice.

“Always for you, sir,” she replied. Her voice was low, strangely accentless, although the flattened vowel sounds suggested the north of England.

Cowley gestured to the table. “Let’s take a seat.”

There was a subtle tension in her movements as her gaze flickered over Bodie and Doyle, but it passed in a split second as she smiled and turned her back.

A quick gesture from Cowley was all the notice Bodie was given or needed. He grabbed her from behind, one strong arm wrapping around her neck and shoulders.

But he wasn’t allowed to complete his grip. Like quicksilver, she dropped out of his reach, turning the manoeuvre into a roll that brought her to her feet. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she span into a roundhouse kick that Bodie barely managed to avoid. Expecting a delay before she found her footing, he tried to move in closer, but she recovered far quicker than he had anticipated, and he walked straight into a kick aimed squarely at his jaw. The force pushed him back into the table.

Cornered, with little room left in which to manoeuvre, there was nothing she could do to prevent Doyle closing in to support his partner. He was careful to avoid allowing her the freedom to use her legs, pitting his speed against hers, his agility against her almost balletic grace. His blows were blocked or dodged, but the fast attack left her no room to do anything but defend, and it caught her off balance. Instantly taking advantage of a faltering block, Doyle caught her arm in a wrist lock, forcing her to turn in his grasp. Before she could turn free, he pulled her into the reach of his other arm. She leaned back against him and sheer instinct made him move his head as she effortlessly brought a foot up to head height. He felt the force of the kick move the air close to his face. Taking advantage of her momentary shift in balance, he pushed her forward and into the wall, forcing her to use her free arm to cushion the blow and trapping it between her body and the wall. Before she could use her legs, he brought his own between hers, pushing them apart. Pinned against the wall, his body the full length of hers, he could feel her muscles tightening as memory and instinct sought an escape route. Then, strangely, he felt her relax. Warily, understanding her stillness was more to conserve energy than a signal of surrender, he maintained his firm hold. It was a stalemate; he had her immobilised, but he could not follow up on his advantage. Her cheek was pressed between the wall and his shoulder, his head against the top of hers to stop her throwing her head back to crack against his. Violet eyes looked back at him, large and, he noticed, with a kind of brittle brightness to them.

She breathed slightly harder as he crushed against her. “Now that’s not very friendly,” she said at last.

“And we’ve not even been formally introduced,” Doyle agreed, his breath stirring the fine hairs of her neck.

“That tickles!” she said with a giggle he thought strangely inappropriate for an assassin.

“4-5,” Cowley’s voice cut through his thoughts smoothly. “Let her up.”

Doyle relaxed his grip on her cautiously and stepped away. She remained motionless as he moved, allowing him to put space between them before she pushed herself off the wall and turned around to look at the three men. She grinned at Bodie and Doyle in turn, showing no anger at their attack or Doyle’s overpowering of her. In fact, she seemed oddly amused by it.

“Does anyone mind telling me what that was all about?” she enquired affably.

A frown quirked Doyle’s brow for a split second. She seemed friendly, approachable - but something twanged beneath the façade. A slight tension he had felt in her body as it was pinned beneath his, and he now saw in her body language.

“This is Doyle, and Bodie,” Cowley said, indicating the men. Doyle nodded a greeting, but Bodie gave a lazy salute.

“Me Gran always taught me to salute magpies,” he explained in a laconic drawl.

Doyle watched, expecting anger or irritation to flash in her eyes. Instead, it seemed the Bodie charms had worked their usual magic. Magpie smiled, but still the warmth in her eyes seemed superficial. Even that pretence was wiped out by Cowley’s next words.

“This is the Magpie, gentlemen. Morgan Draven.”

They saw the sudden flex of her muscles, an involuntary step towards Cowley. Blue eyes sparkled with cold fury, her lips pale and tight in a face suddenly devoid of colour.

An explosive sound of breath escaping through clenched teeth preceded her words. “I haven’t been Morgan Draven for 18 years,” she replied, her voice a silken hiss. “Morgan Draven died.”

“Aye,” Cowley agreed. “Didn’t I make the arrangements myself?”

Blue eyes glinted dangerously, but Cowley’s dark grey eyes remained steady.

“Why did you send for me?” she demanded, all pretence of friendliness gone.

“Why do you think?”

“Don’t play games with me, George Cowley!”

“I thought you were retired?”

Blue eyes calmed slightly and her breathing slowed. “I am. I thought I’d come and hear you out anyway.”

“Why? Just to refuse?” Cowley’s voice took on a mocking edge.

She shrugged, once more in control of herself. “Never say never, eh? Uncle George.”

Bodie and Doyle shared a startled look before Bodie turned to Cowley with a strangled, “Uncle George?”

It was Cowley’s turn to look uncomfortable, and Doyle, his attention fixed back on Magpie, noticed her grim satisfaction.

“Didn’t tell you that then, did he?” she said with a sneer, her accent more pronounced in her mocking tone.

Cowley sighed, the grey eyes now showing his own anger. “Morgan is my God-daughter,” he confessed.

Bodie stood in open-mouthed shock “Hang on,” he said, incredulously. “One of the most highly regarded assassins in the world is your….” He broke off and turned to look at Doyle. “Actually, y’know, it makes a kind of sense,” he finished.

Doyle shrugged. “There’s a kind of logic to it, yeah,” he agreed,

Cowley glowered at them, lips pursed, before turning his attention back to the still fuming Magpie.

“I hear there’s a contract out on you,” he said softly.

She gave a quick look of puzzlement before her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And who told you that?”

He shrugged. “I have my sources.”

“I know,” she snapped back. “Your source is usually me.”

“I have other sources,” Cowley’s voice was silken but hard.

There was a moment's hesitation, her eyes mutinous. “There’s no contract,” she said finally.

Cowley’s open hand slammed down on the table, his anger as sudden and as violent as hers. “Don’t lie to me, girl!” he bellowed.

Magpie did not move, but her hands clenched into fists by her side. “I’m not lying,” she snarled. “I know there’s no contract out on me because….” she stopped herself dead, realisation in her eyes that she had already admitted too much. She closed her mouth, lips twisting in self-recrimination. Her muscles relaxed as her anger drained and she looked away from Cowley, frustration in her eyes. “I know because I’ve asked around,” she finished, her voice quieter and resigned. “No-one knows anything about anyone arranging a hit on me, or anyone planning to.”

Cowley’s eyes hinted of triumph in her admission. “But someone is trying to kill you,” he persisted, determined to wrench a full confession from her.

There was a flash of rebellion in her expression, as though unwilling to allow him to win so easily, but it faded at the grimly determined look on his face. As though the admission pained her, the information forced out against her will, she nodded reluctantly. “Yes,” she said at last. “Someone is.”

“Well then,” Cowley sat down at last, gesturing for her to do likewise. With a sigh she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him, insubordination in her eyes and bearing. Bodie stood at ease by Cowley’s side, Doyle lounged against the wall on the other side of their boss. Violet eyes flashed as she looked up at them.

“So Blue-eyed and Beautiful and Mop Top here were supposed to put me in my place, were they?” she said with a glint of sarcasm. Doyle and Bodie exchanged looks, one wry; the other giving a self-satisfied smirk. Doyle rolled his eyes; there were bound to be comments later on.

“You’re good, Maggie,” Cowley said, using a strangely affectionate nickname. “But you’re not invincible.”

“Never said I was,” she snapped. “Anyway,” she jerked her head in Bodie’s direction. “He’s faster than he looks but just as deadly. And as for him,” another jerk of the head, this time at Doyle. “He’s bloody quick, and thinks fast as well.”

“Thanks, I’m sure,” Bodie drawled.

She looked up to meet his midnight-blue eyes, a slight look of hurt in her eyes. “It was meant as a compliment,” she said.

“Do you know anything about the person after you?” Cowley asked.

She shrugged. “No.” She was lying. Cowley ignored it.

“No warnings?” he insisted.

She watched him in silence for a few seconds, choosing her words carefully, trying to stay one step ahead of Cowley’s triple-thinking. Her jaw twitched convulsively and one knee bounced up and down with a repetitive rhythm that Doyle was starting to find annoying.

“People,” she said at last. “At least two.” The words came out short and clipped. “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

Cowley arched an eyebrow. “And you claim you don’t think you’re invincible?” he said with careful mockery.

The knee did not stop its relentless bounce. “It’s my business,” she insisted. “I’ll deal with it.”

“And if it ends up with you dead?”

“Then the problem will be over, won’t it?” she snapped angrily.

“You never struck me as the suicidal type,” Cowley said.

“I’m not,” she said emphatically. “I’m pragmatic. Either I live or I die, but I don’t have to make it easy for them.”

Cowley gave a sigh, his disappointment evident. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he said sadly. “You know I’d help if I can. I owe it to your Father if nothing else.”

Her chair fell to the floor with the force of her explosion as she flew to her feet, hands slamming down on the desk as she leaned towards Cowley. Bodie put a protective arm between them, poised to grab her shoulders in restraint. Doyle stood, bringing himself to the other side of her, but he did not reach out. Instead, he watched her carefully.

“You don’t talk about him,” she snarled, ignoring the two men. “You don’t mention him.” There was a silence where the only sound was her breathing. “And you tell Bodie that if he lays a hand on me I’ll break his arm,” her voice dropped to a low menacing growl.

“Easier said than done, love,” Bodie said, his voice smooth, but his eyes flashing a warning.

Doyle held up his hand, a gesture that caught his partner’s attention. He signalled for Bodie to back off. Trusting Doyle’s instincts, wondering what the man had noticed, Bodie did so, but he remained ready to react.

Doyle’s hand rested comfortably on his hips, green eyes carefully watching the angry woman. “When did you last sleep?” His voice was neutral. The sudden question seemed to cut through her anger. She started, as though physically restrained, and turned confused violet eyes to him, searching the jade depths there for some clue as to his motives. She blinked a few times, her mouth trembling as though unable to decide on an answer. As her fury drained, the signs of tiredness Doyle had spotted became more apparent : the too-bright eyes, the subtle shake of her hands.

She stood upright and seemed to sway. “How…?” she began, with a frown. She swallowed and gave a defeated sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted, unable to meet the piercing green gaze any longer. “I don’t know what day it is,” she said, her voice heavy. She cast a look around the room, as if trying to recall a long-forgotten memory. “Saturday,” she said at last. “It was Saturday afternoon. I fell asleep for a couple of hours watching the television in some motel in Birmingham.”

Cowley gave Doyle a satisfied look and a quick nod, the closest thing to a compliment he allowed. Magpie did not react as Bodie picked up her chair and replaced it behind her. She stood, dejected in defeat, and allowed the tiredness to creep through.

“And how long since you ate?” Bodie asked, his voice carefully couched in the same neutral tone that had worked for Doyle.

She shrugged. “Don’t remember,” she said again. “Whenever I feel I can.”

The three men watched the beaten woman but could take no pleasure in their victory. She stood, unmoving except for the gentle sway and involuntary shivers of exhaustion. The fire in her eyes was replaced with an empty, weary gaze.

“How much longer could you run on no sleep and no food, Magpie?” Cowley’s voice was gentle.

A soft shrug. “Don’t know,” she admitted, her voice now flat and emotionless. “They’re trying to run me into the ground, I think. Trying to make me give up.”

“Maggie,” Cowley steepled his fingers together as he chose his words carefully. The grey eyes were clear and honest. “You’ve never given up in your life,” he said gently.

His words raised a small smile on her lips. “First time for everything,” she replied. Another tired shrug. “They could have finished me off a dozen times or more,” she said with a lack of concern that Bodie and Doyle found disturbing. “I know they could - I could have,” she continued, raising her eyes to meet Cowley's once more.

His expression was guarded. “Why do you think that?”

She slipped into the same kind of detached mode that Bodie adopted when making professional judgements. “It’s easier, being the predator, than being the prey,” she said. “I know I could have taken me out any number of times. But they haven’t. They’ve left messages, signs. Hell,” she gave a short bark of laughter that held no humour. “I thought I was going crazy at first. Getting that itch between my shoulder blades like you’re in someone’s sights.” Doyle and Bodie exchanged looks - they were familiar with that sensation. They knew better than ignore it. “I thought I’d finally gone mad.”

“What convinced you you weren’t?” Doyle asked.

She stared at him, but her gaze was far away, back in time and place. “They nailed my dog to the front door,” she replied, her voice strangely soft. Her gaze focused again. “Then I started getting death threats in the mail. Hand delivered sometimes. Cut and pasted from newspapers.”

“You’re sure they mean business then?” Cowley asked.

Her violet eyes regained some of their sharpness. “You tell me. You’re the one with the sources.”

Cowley gave a sigh. “These are my best men,” he said, his voice firm. “I want them to protect you.”

She quirked her head to one side. “You trust them?”

“With my life. And yours.”

“Do you trust me with theirs?” The question was harsh, the look on her face suddenly cold.

“I thought they’d demonstrated their capabilities,” he replied smoothly.

“Oh they’re good,” she agreed. “Very good.” Her eyes were unblinking. “All the more reason not to waste them on me.”

Cowley sat back in his chair, hands still steepled together in front of him. “Consider it another way,” he said smoothly. “Consider that, with three of you, you stand a better chance of drawing them out.”

She gave a wolfish grin and sat down opposite him again, mirroring his actions deliberately. “Tethered goat now, am I?”

Cowley’s look was laden with meaning. “You’re no normal target, Maggie. And no normal baby-sitting assignment.”

She looked long and hard at Bodie and Doyle respectively. “I don’t want anyone hurt for my sake,” she said finally. The tired, too-bright eyes sparkled with determination again. “No-one,” she said firmly.

“It’s our job,” Doyle said with a shrug. Bodie found it curious - why should she care about anyone else getting hurt? She was an assassin - hardly a profession known for their altruistic tendencies.

Her look brooked no argument. “No-one gets hurt on my account,” she snapped. She turned her determined gaze to Cowley. “I’m no fool, Cowley. I may be so tired I can’t see straight, but I can still think.” There was anger in her voice, anger at admitting her weakness, Doyle guessed.

“I’m good, but I’m not perfect, even firing on all cylinders,” she continued, her voice now strong and quick. “I can’t deal with two or more unknown cleaners, and try and throw off your men.”

Cowley’s look told her he had already considered that. Her lips tightened in frustration. “Dammit, Cowley,” she said in a quiet voice at odds with the tension in her body. “I’m not worth it,” she finished in a gentle whisper. Her muscles relaxed and she sagged in her seat. “I’m not worth it,” she repeated softly.

“That’s for me to decide,” Cowley said at last. He stood with an air of finality. “I’ll leave you to your charge, gentlemen.” He looked down at the black haired head hanging low in defeat. “She won’t try and lose you. She’s no fool.” The grey eyes sparkled as he glared at the two men. “And don’t either of you be either,” he warned. “Anyone taking on Magpie is not going to be a push-over.” He gave one last look at the woman in the chair. “Goodbye, Morgan,” he said gently. The violet eyes flashed again at the use of her old name. “I’ve given you the best chance available.”

Her anger subsided as she nodded. “I know,” she admitted. “Let’s hope something useful comes out of it.”

Cowley gave a nod and went to leave the room.

“Sir?” Doyle stepped forward to hold the door. Cowley’s questioning gaze prompted him to continue. “Can I have a quick word?”

Cowley gave a curt nod, and the two men stepped outside the interview room, closing the door behind them. Bodie eased from his erect pose as his boss left the room.

“Well, that went well, I thought,” he said.

She flashed him a grin, the seriousness and dejection forgotten in an instant. “You think?” She sat back in her chair regarding him through laughing eyes. He took Cowley’s empty seat, meeting her gaze deliberately. This was an act, he realised. The laughter hiding darker thoughts.

“So,” she said. “Bodie, isn’t it?” She smiled as he nodded confirmation. “What next?”

“Safe house,” Bodie replied without hesitation. “We may have to move you about.”

She nodded her understanding. “And what are these safe houses like?”

Bodie shrugged. “It varies,” he admitted.

“Mini bar?”

He gave a short laugh. “On our expenses?”

She reached for her rucksack with a conspiratorial grin. “Ah, well. Fortunately,” she said, rummaging through the contents of the bag, “I was taught to be prepared.”

An almost full bottle of Laphroaig materialised from the bag and Bodie’s grin widened.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Cowley’s God-daughter,” he said.

 

 

Outside, Doyle stood, arms folded in front of him, displeasure radiating in every line. Ray Doyle had difficulty hiding his feelings at the best of times, which belied his talent for undercover work. Cowley knew from the determined look in the emerald eyes that this would be another occasion where Doyle was going to speak his mind and damn the consequences.

“Well?” he asked, waiting for the storm to break.

“That was hardly fair, sir,” Doyle said, his voice quick and controlled.

“What’s that?” Cowley was being deliberately awkward.

Doyle’s jaw clenched briefly. He stared at him a few seconds longer. “You used us just to show her how tired she is.”

“Aye, I did.” Cowley’s calm admission took some of the wind from Doyle’s sails. Before he could gather himself, Cowley pressed his advantage. “And what else was I supposed to do to show her she needs help?” he demanded. “She’s not the kind of woman who responds to sweet talk and charm, you know.”

“Maybe not, but four days with no sleep and God knows how long without food and she’s still a handful,” Doyle said. “She’s the sort who lives on sheer bloody mindedness,” he continued. “And you just about knocked all the fight out of her. Sir,” he added deliberately.

Cowley glared at Doyle, both men barely suppressing their anger. “There’s one very important thing you should know about her, 4-5,” he said through tight lips. “She doesn’t lie. Oh, it’s not that she’s not good at it; if she has to, she’s as good as either of you at deception. It’s just she chooses not to. She doesn’t lie to herself either. And I had to be sure that hadn’t changed; that she knew the score.”

Doyle nodded his understanding, but the green eyes were no less forgiving. “Maybe you do know her better than anyone else,” he said. “But I’d be happier if she was still fighting and not giving up.”

Cowley stepped closer to Doyle, his voice low but harsh. “She doesn’t give up, Doyle. Never has, never will. What she needs now is someone to watch her back. And that’s a completely new sensation for her.” He stepped back. “But she’ll adapt. She’ll fight. Because that’s what she does.” Cowley turned on his heel and limped away.

Doyle watched him go, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands on his hips. He gave a sigh and went back to the interview room. Bodie greeted him with a grin and a question in the dark blue eyes. Magpie, he noticed, had a similar questioning look. Tired she would be, he thought; but stupid, never.

“We’ll get to the nearest safe house for tonight,” he said. “Then move to somewhere else tomorrow.”

Bodie nodded his agreement. Doyle turned to Magpie. “Where have you been staying?”

“Last three days, in my car,” she replied. “It’s parked about three-quarters of a mile from here.”

“We’ll get the car pool to fetch it, bring it in here,” Bodie said, standing up and holding out his hand for the keys. She looked vaguely mutinous again, but handed them over. Bodie turned the keys in his hand.

“Audi?” he asked.

“White Quattro,” she replied. “Two years old. Left hand drive.”

Bodie nodded his approval. “Very nice.”

“Hardly subtle,” Doyle commented.

She met his disapproving look with a grin. “Subtlety wasn’t a consideration when I bought it.”

“Are you armed?” he asked sharply.

Her smile faded. “Yes,” she said simply. Cowley was right, Doyle reflected; lying didn’t seem to cross her mind.

“What you carrying?” Bodie asked, more out of curiosity than official interest.

She gestured towards the rucksack. “Beretta. 92F. Blued”

It earned her another approving nod, the black eyebrows raised over the blue eyes. His bottom lip formed itself into a thoughtful pout. He turned to Doyle. “Audi Quattro. Bottle of Laphroaig, and a Beretta. I think I’m in love.”

“You just want the car,” Doyle said with a grin.

“Oh I’m sure we’d both benefit by the arrangement.” Bodie grinned at Magpie, who watched them with indulgent humour.

“I think one of us would be dead within a week, Blue Eyes,” she said. “Or both of us.”

“And why’s that?”

“Exhaustion,” she said without hesitation, grabbing her rucksack and standing up.

Bodie’s grin widened. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “C’mon you two. Get a room.” He held the door open for Magpie and shook his head at his still grinning partner as he walked through.

“Incorrigible, that’s what you are,” he said.

Bodie affected a hurt look. “I thought I was priapismic?”

“That as well,” Doyle replied, following after them. He hung back as Bodie led the way and found violet eyes watching him curiously. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but dismissed it with a turn of her head. He watched as she followed Bodie, before tagging on behind. This could be an intriguing experience, he reflected.

 

 

The silver Capri negotiated the early evening traffic, Bodie behind the wheel. Doyle sat in the passenger seat, arm resting casually on the open window.

“Any idea where we’re heading yet?” Bodie’s irritation was obvious.

“No,” Doyle replied, affably. “Once they’ve sorted one out, they’ll let us know.” A shortage of safe houses was unheard of, and Cowley had been less than pleased.

“So what now?”

Doyle turned to look at his partner, giving him a grin. Bodie caught the look and smiled.

“Your place or mine?”

“Toss for it,” Doyle suggested.

“Who gets the furthest wins?” Magpie’s voice came from the back seat where she lay, knees raised. Doyle cast a look in her direction, surprised by her innuendo.

“Thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.

“No,” came the short reply. She made a show of wriggling around. “I’ve heard that people have actually managed to have sex in the back of one of these,” she complained. “Is that even humanly possible?”

Bodie grinned. “Don’t ask me, love.”

“Not while there’s a handy bed nearby,” Doyle replied.

“Bloody park bench’d be more comfortable for a quick shag than this,” she grumbled. A quick look in the mirror confirmed Bodie’s thoughts - she was joking, giving a good-natured wink as she caught his glance.

“That the voice of experience?” he asked.

Doyle gave an evil chuckle. “Who said romance is dead?”

“Dunno about bloody romance, mate, but my bloody arse is dead, that’s for damn sure,” she muttered. The two men grinned; clearly the woman in the back had a colourful grasp of the English language.

Doyle fished in his pockets and pulled out a coin. “Heads or tails?”

“My point exactly,” came the grumpy reply from the back.

“Lady’s choice,” Bodie said gallantly.

“Creep,” Doyle muttered.

“Heads - Blue-Eyed and Beautiful; Tails - Mop Top,” she said firmly.

Doyle caught the coin deftly and looked at it. He met Bodie’s questioning gaze with a shrug. “Tails it is.”

Bodie gave an impish grin. “Great. You’ve always got food in.”

Doyle shook his head. “Not this time, mate. Your turn for takeaway.”

Bodie opened his mouth to protest when a pale hand emerged through the two front seats brandishing three worn ten-pound notes.

“Milky bars are on me,” came the voice from the back seat.

“Dunno if we can accept cash in the course of performing our duty,” Doyle intoned with a teasing flash in his green eyes.

“It’s not cash, it’s payment in kind,” she retorted. “Besides, it’ll save Cowley having a fit at the expenses claim.”

Bodie accepted the cash with a grateful nod. “True. Besides,” he gave Doyle a cheeky grin. “Saves me paying.”

“Base to 4-5.” The radio cut though their chat. Doyle picked up the handset.

“4-5”

“Safe house seventeen, available from tomorrow.”

“Understood.”

“Control wants to know what arrangements have been made for tonight. Over.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look. No way was he going to tell Cowley he was taking the target home for the evening. He gave a grin. “We’ll improvise,” he said into the hand set. “4-5 out.”

“We’ll need to go through a list of possible enemies,” he continued, turning the conversation back to serious issues.

“None that I know of,” she replied.

“Oh come one,” he said, turning to fix her with a disbelieving look. “You’ve got to have someone out for revenge.”

Bodie flicked a glance to the rear view mirror at the figure sprawled across the back seat. He could not see her face, only the restless sway of her knees, raised up to accommodate her length across the seat.

“Believe it or not, people don’t tend to take me personally,” she replied, a cold note in her voice. “If they want revenge, they’ll take it on the person who hired me. Not me. I’m unaffiliated. Freelance.”

“Well, how many we talking about?” Doyle persisted, a strident note of disapproval in his voice.

Bodie saw her head lift briefly from the seat. “78,” she snapped. “You want names? Dates? Details?”

“Maybe, yes,” he retorted, ignoring the shock creeping through his stomach. 78 dead? At how much a head, he wondered.

Her body stilled. “First man I killed, I was 17,” she said, the cold voice flat and dead. “Killed another six before I was 18.”

Bodie risked a look at his partner. Doyle’s expression was clouded, his green eyes flashing anger.

“Last man I killed was just over two years ago. That’s a period of about 13 years to cover,” she continued. Doyle risked a look behind him and saw she lay on her back, staring at the roof of the car, her pale face impassive.

“And you’re retired now.” Bodie’s voice was neutral.

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?” The words left Doyle’s lips before he could stop them.

She turned her head to meet Doyle’s gaze, the eyes cold blue. “I didn’t want it any more,” she said, her reply failing to answer his question.

“Strange career choice,” Bodie ventured.

She shrugged and turned away from Doyle again. “I made my choices,” she replied. “Never said they were good ones but I’m not going to start making excuses for them now.”

The Capri pulled up by the side of the road. “Here we are,” Bodie announced, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. Doyle was getting righteous and annoyed, and Magpie seemed oblivious to it. Or, more likely, he thought, she just didn’t care.

“Get everything sorted, get the kettle on, and I’ll be back with the finest Chinese takeaway Kensington can offer,” he said with a disarming smile.

The green eyes flashed a warning. Doyle knew very well Bodie was leaving him to deal with the stroppy assassin in the back seat. He scanned the street in all directions, as he opened the car door. Noticing nothing out of the ordinary, he pulled the chair aside to allow her out. She unravelled with feline grace, accepting his hand in assistance as she stepped out of the car.

Bodie leaned over as Doyle replaced the seat. “Don’t pick any fights while I’m gone,” he said, only half joking.

Doyle ignored him, closing the car door with a slam. The engine roared off as he turned his back. She followed him without a word, deliberately avoiding eye contact, as he led her to the apartment on the second floor. Once inside, he ignored her, making his way to the kitchen, the only sound that of running water as he filled the kettle. As it began to heat, he looked back into the lounge. Magpie stood, surveying her surroundings. She had not moved since entering the flat. He gave a sigh, regretting his flash of temper, and stood in the doorway, watching her.

“You want a shower? Freshen up?” he asked.

She turned to meet his gaze as he spoke, and gave a wordless nod. She dropped her rucksack to the floor at her feet.

“Right,” he walked passed her, back through the hallway, and reappeared a few moments later with a towel and a clean shirt. Magpie had moved to the shelves next to the fireplace, carefully scanning the spines of the books lined up. She turned as he held out the bundle to her. The violet eyes were bright as they met his.

“Thank you,” she said gently. There was more than just gratitude for the shower in her clear gaze. He felt suddenly uncomfortable.

“Just a clean shirt you can wear,” he said, more as something to say than an explanation.

She gave a fragile smile. “Thank you anyway,” she said again. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, cautiously, unsure of how he would react. His head lowered, but he raised his eyes to hers. She gave a small shrug. “I’m on a short fuse,” she continued, looking embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Or Bodie.”

“Or Cowley?”

She pursed her lips and regarded him carefully. “Or Cowley,” she agreed at last.

Her dark blue eyes scanned his face earnestly as she wondered how to say what she needed to say, how this quick-tempered, whipcord of a man would react.

“You know it’s more than just tiredness, don’t you?” she said softly.

The deep green eyes gave nothing away. Needing to admit it, not really knowing why this man engendered such trust in one so unused to giving anything away, she continued quickly before she thought about it too much.

“I’m frightened,” she admitted, unable to stop the defiant lift of her chin or the faint colour in her cheek.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“You think this is easy for me?” She closed her eyes, instantly regretting her sharp reply. “I’m sorry,” she said again. I’m…” she looked around the room as though she would find the words she sought.

“Not used to it?” Doyle finished for her. She gave him a grateful look.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not.” She sighed. “I’m not used to being grateful, and I’m not used to being this scared.”

“It’s understandable,” Doyle said with a shrug, trying to dismiss her confession. “It can’t be easy, being on the receiving end for a change.”

The slight sharpness in his reply was not lost on her. She looked down at the towel and shirt in her hands.

“I know you don’t like me, Doyle,” she said quietly. She was grateful he didn’t bother trying to deny it. “I can understand it,” she continued. “I don’t like me much either,” she said with a smile that faded as quickly as it appeared. “But I never did this to anyone. I never hunted them down, ran them into the ground, tormented them. Never.” She gave a shrug. “I know it’s not much, and it’s not like it makes any difference in the scheme of things.” The violet eyes raised to meet his were huge. “But it was important to me,” she finished gently. “Call it professional pride.” The soft smile flashed briefly again.

The noise of a boiling kettle interrupted them and Doyle moved away to the kitchen.

“Bathroom’s that way,” he said with a wave of his hand. When he turned to look, she had already gone.

By the time she returned, Bodie was back, the table covered with plastic containers, plates and cutlery. Doyle was not a big man, but his dark red shirt hung off her, almost reaching her knees. The black hair was combed and wet, leaving dark patches on the shirt where it lay down her back. She produced a bottle of Laphroaig from her bag, to Bodie’s obvious delight, and they sat to enjoy the meal. And when she disappeared quickly part way through, the two men pretended not to hear the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. She returned to the table without a word, not looking at them, and continued to push food around her plate before risking the occasional forkful in her mouth.

“So what do we call you?” Bodie asked in a lull between feeding. “Magpie seems so formal,” he said in answer to the unspoken question on her face.

“Maggie will do,” she replied.

“Not Morgan?” Doyle asked quietly. Bodie flashed him a look but Doyle ignored him.

She gave him a long careful appraisal, the blue eyes cool. “No,” she said at last, the coldness creeping into her voice. “Not Morgan.” She reached for the glass of whisky, feeling the harshness on her raw throat and its warmth creep through her.

“What do your friends call you?” Doyle asked. Bodie wondered why his partner seemed so intent on goading the woman put in their care.

“Whatever name happens to be on my passport at the time,” she replied calmly.

“Which is?”

“Doyle, just drop it,” Bodie said quietly, but firmly. Green eyes stared at him as he gathered together the plates, following him as he took them through to the kitchen. Bodie returned immediately, watching the tense play from the doorway, wondering what had precipitated the sudden animosity.

“I’m just curious,” Doyle said. “Never had the chance to interview an internationally infamous assassin before.” Doyle’s voice was pure poison.

Bodie saw the challenging look in her violet eyes. She sat back in the upright chair, almost diagonal as her neck rested against the back, legs stretched out lazily in front of her. That was distraction enough, he thought. Long in proportion to her body, her legs were smooth and sleek, muscles moving under pale skin. She raised the glass to her lips again, the movement causing gaps to form and disappear between the shirt buttons, revealing glimpses of smooth curves and soft flesh. A quick look at the darkening green eyes of Doyle convinced him that his bad tempered partner was no more immune to her charms than he was. She gave a lazy, predatory smile.

“So what do you want to know, Doyle?” she asked, her voice a cold, silken purr. “Rates? Methods? Training? You ask these questions when you worked vice and pulled in the girls for questioning?”

The flash in the green eyes and quick involuntary swallow made her smile deepen. She had struck a nerve, drawn blood. Only fair, Bodie considered.

“Difference is, love,” Doyle’s voice was cold. “What you sell, I ain’t buying. At least street girls have some kind of standards.” His words were intended to wound, the sharpness to flay the smirk from her face. But he missed his mark. Magpie seemed completely unmoved by his venom.

“Same difference, mate,” she sneered. “Either way, I’m screwing ‘em. Or do you think prostitutes have some kind of moral high ground?”

“Compared to the likes of you?”

“Likes of _us_ , mate,” she snapped with a twisted smile on her lips. “Or you never killed anyone? Never taken your CI5 pay cheque after leaving dead bodies behind?” She knocked back the contents of her glass. “Difference between me and you is just pay scale,” she said with a snarl, reaching for the bottle. “Cus when Cowley can’t bring himself to sully the high moral standards of his men by sending them on some Black Ops mission,” she finished pouring another drink and put the bottle down on the table firmly. “That’s when he calls the likes of me,” she finished, raising the glass to her lips once more in a mocking toast. “Cheers.”

Bodie and Doyle shared a knowing look. They both knew enough about Black Ops, had been sent on a few themselves; times when badges and ID cards were left behind, and you knew that if anything went wrong all you would get from your superiors was flat denials. Operation Susies, they called them. What kind of Ops were blacker than that, to warrant calling in a - what had she called herself? - a freelancer.

“Hardly doing it for Queen and Country though, are you?” Doyle persisted, doggedly determined to score a point.

“Mate’s rates,” she snapped, anger in her eyes, equally determined not to back down from him.

Doyle folded his arms across his chest and flashed a wry grin to Bodie. “I dunno, mate,” he said, cruel humour in the green eyes. “Can’t for the life of me work out why anyone wants her dead.”

Silence hung heavily in the air following his cold assessment. Rebellion dulled in the violet eyes, and she drained her glass again, the harsh liquor barely registering on her features. Sullenly, she sat straighter in her chair, eyes on the rapidly diminishing bottle of Scotch.

Doyle watched her defeated body language and wondered why he felt no satisfaction, why he felt the need to attack her. It wasn’t that she was an assassin, that was too easy. But he fought and killed for belief; belief that what he was doing was right, made the world a safe, better, place for everyone else, who never had to worry about getting their hands dirty on the unpleasant business he did for them. He did it for duty and honour; she did it for money.

And maybe that’s all it was - the kind of prostitution involved. Yes, he’d worked in vice squad; yes, he’d taken girls in for questioning. But he’d never taken the voyeur’s delight in their answers, or accepted ‘free samples’ in exchange for a blind eye. No. Doyle was fair and played straight - any street walker would agree. But instead of sex, she sold death. Instead of regular clients, she left a string of dead bodies. 78 of them, she’d said. No; likening her to a prostitute wasn’t fair, he realised. It wasn’t fair to the prossies.

“Bedroom’s through there,” he gestured as he stood, moving to cast his keen gaze out of the window for anything suspicious. “Bed’s all yours,” he added, his voice distant, concentrating on other matters.

Bodie almost felt sorry for her as she stood quietly and moved to the doorway. His partner had a vicious tongue and an unbreakable belief in what was good and right. The lines blurred sometimes in their line of work, but Doyle always had a sense of moral justice which sometimes the world fell short of. Magpie obviously rattled that clear conscience and Doyle wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

She stopped at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. “Maggie isn’t short for Magpie,” she said in a soft voice. She did not turn to look at them. “Maggie is what Cowley calls me. Always has.” The gentle voice sounded distant. “It was a pet name,” she said. “My Dad.” The voice caught, hesitating over the word. Bodie saw the hand grip the door frame, clenching reflexively, knuckles whitening. “My Dad called it me,” she continued, as the hand relaxed. “Only Cowley calls me that any more, so it really is my name. Sort of.” Without waiting to see if her confession garnered any response, she added, “Good night,” before disappearing down the corridor and into the darkness of the bedroom.

Bodie pushed the door half closed behind her, turning back to Doyle with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Bit harsh, weren’t you?” he said softly.

Doyle flashed a look, half anger, half embarrassment. “She’s a killer, Bodie.”

“So’m I.”

“Yeah, but you don’t enjoy it. Said so yourself.”

He shrugged. “Neither does she, I’d say.”

He reached for his glass and took a sip of the softly glowing amber liquid. “It’s not like you to go easy on assassins,” Doyle said with a note of accusation.

Bodie gave another shrug. “There but for the grace of God, innit?” he said.

Doyle watched his stoic partner, realising that something had to be important enough to get through the shield of affected apathy and black humour that Bodie usually used as protection.

“What? You? An assassin?”

Bodie still would not meet his gaze. He knew that Doyle had an uncanny instinct for weakness, one best displayed in his unerring talent for interrogation. Doyle could sell refrigerators to the Eskimos.

 

“It’s not that far removed from anything else I’ve done,” Bodie said softly. The midnight blue eyes finally met Doyle’s. “You’re just judging her against all the others. Not entirely fair, sunshine.”

Doyle turned away, back to the window where the dying light of a summer sun caught the red glints in his hair, making it look as though sparks of fire danced in the dark brown curls.

“Telling me she’s a killer with a heart of gold?” he accused, but his voice lacked its previous venom. The anger was leaving him, and Bodie knew he was starting to feel a little guilty.

“No such thing, sunshine,” he replied. “But I will tell you this -” Jade green eyes turned to meet his, hearing the firm serious note in the normally flippant voice. “Magpie never killed a guard, never killed family, never took her time over it. If you wanted a clean kill - just in, do the job, no mess - then you called Magpie. Expert at locked room kills – barely left any tracks behind to show how she got in or out. No vendettas, no torture, no sending messages” Bodie’s hand slapped hard down on the table with a startling finality. “Dead. That’s it.”

“Sounds positively humane,” Doyle said with a slight note of mockery.

Bodie drained his glass. “In her business, it is,” he replied. “And she’s obviously not used to talking about it.”

“Hardly embarrassed by it either,” Doyle retorted.

“Obviously not the type to make excuses, is she,” was Bodie’s confident assessment. “Still, I doubt she woke up one morning and decided to be an assassin when she grew up.”

“Something happened, you mean.” Doyle’s expression held that sharp hunger of curiosity.

Bodie shrugged. “Dunno, mate,” he replied, and Doyle’s eagerness ebbed at the denial.

“You seem to have hit it off anyway.” Doyle’s curiosity had turned to teasing.

Bodie gave a wry grin and lifted an eyebrow. He lay down on the sofa, arranging cushions for maximum comfort. “Not my type, Ray.”

“Why not? Under 50, warm...” Doyle threw Bodie’s usual criteria at him with a grin.

Bodie smiled and rested his arms behind his head. “Want to know something else I learned about magpies?” he asked, laughing blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. He waited for Doyle to bite, knowing his partner would not be able to resist.

“What’s that then?”

He stifled a grin at his partner’s predictability. “It’s why you salute a lone magpie. Cus they’re in mourning. Magpie’s mate for life.”

Doyle was silent for a split second before giving a low chuckle and throwing a handy cushion at his prone partner. Bodie accepted his punishment with another boyish grin.

“Still,” Doyle’s voice fell into hushed seriousness. “78 hits.” He shook his head.

“Yeah.” Bodie sniffed. “Strange that.”

Doyle frowned. “Come again?”

Bodie angled his head to look at his partner. “Last time I heard, Magpie had around 60 confirmed kills.”

Doyle shrugged. “60 - 78. Not that much of a difference.”

“It’s enough. And she’s 31 years old.”

“I’d worked that one out for meself,” Doyle commented wryly.

“Nice to know your copper’s instinct is as sharp as ever, sunshine,” Bodie replied magnanimously. “But have you considered that maybe some of those 78 hits were free and gratis? And I’m not talking the mate’s rates ones either.”

A quick frown darkened the green eyes. “Personal, you mean?”

Bodie shrugged. “Maybe.”

Doyle sighed and gave a last look out of the window. Sensing nothing suspicious lurked in the evening air, he left his watch and made his way to the armchair. He sat down, legs stretched out on the coffee table in front of him. He examined the glass he still held in his hand, watching the whisky catch the light with flashes of amber fire.

“So I should be more sympathetic?” he said, a note of rebellion in his voice.

Bodie gave a chuckle. “Christ, no,” he laughed. “Not unless you want your head kicking in.”

Doyle opened his mouth to object, but then remembered the smooth kick made at head height, and shrugged, conceding defeat on that issue alone.

“What then?”

The laughter ebbed from Bodie’s indigo eyes. “She doesn’t want sympathy, Ray. I doubt she even wants understanding.”

“So what then?” Doyle asked a little sharply. Bodie had the market cornered when it came to being enigmatic. If you looked the word up in the dictionary, Doyle would swear there would be a picture of his partner underneath it. But somehow he knew that Bodie understood more about what was going through the head of the assassin in his bedroom than he did, and his curiosity demanded answers.

“Something far harder, sunshine,” Bodie replied, his voice gentle for once.

“Acceptance.”

 

 

Bodie could sleep anywhere, Doyle reflected with a wry look. The object of his attention was currently neatly and economically laid out on the sofa, making a noise like a hippo in labour. He considered throwing a cushion at the prone form, but decided against it, knowing from experience that it would do nothing except lose him a pillow.

His gaze drifted from his snoring partner, moving around the shadowy, moonlit room, falling eventually on the rucksack, casually placed against the bookcase. Magpie's rucksack, containing – if she were to be believed – her Beretta 92F. With a start, he realised she must have gone to bed unarmed. A surprising thought for a wanted woman in the company of strangers.

He wondered what a retired assassin would consider essential, idly trying, by dint of sheer effort of will, to discern the contents from the outward appearance. He squirmed in his seat as curiosity threatened to get the better of him.

Determined to resist the temptation, and also as an excuse to move, he rose and picked up the ruck sack. It hung in his hand - not too heavy, he noticed, but obviously containing more than just a gun.

He padded lightly through the hall to the bedroom, resolved to remove the bag before the temptation proved too great. The door was partly open, and he crept stealthily into the room.

Magpie lay, sprawled on her front, the sheet tangled around one leg, the other exposed. One arm lay beneath the pillow on which she rested, her hair an inky pool of darkness on the white cotton sheets. The other hand lay, curled softly, beside her face. She faced the open window, moonlight giving the scene an ethereal, silvery glow.

He would swear he made no noise, that she was deeply asleep; it must have been the weight of his gaze on her that woke her. She seemed to move from sleep to wakefulness without any hesitation, and he found himself looking down the barrel of his own Colt .357, aimed unerringly at him. It was his own backup weapon, usually kept strapped to the side or bottom of the bed, in case of emergency.

She recognised him instantly, the gun suddenly withdrawn. He heard the hammer click back to safety. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said.

She gave a wry grin, running a hand through the mane of black hair that hung to her waist. "And I didn't mean to point a gun at you, especially your own." She caught sight of the rucksack hanging from his grip. Following her gaze, he lifted it for her consideration before approaching softly and placing the bag at the foot of the bed.

"I was just thinking you'd gone to bed unarmed," he said. "I should have expected you'd find one of the back ups."

She regarded him carefully. There was no suggestion he disapproved of her finding the concealed weapon, she realised. "You think it bizarre that I should trust you and Bodie enough to leave my bag out there?"

He met the shadowed gaze without hesitation. "Truthfully? Yes."

She smiled. "So do I." She drew her knees up to her chest, her arms loosely banding around her shins as she rested her chin on her knees. "Strange, really."

"I haven't touched the contents." Doyle found himself ridiculously drawn to defending himself, feeling guilty that he had even thought about what was inside the ruck sack.

Her grin widened. "I honestly wouldn't blame you if you had," she said.

They watched each other in silence as long seconds ticked by. "I'm sorry about earlier," Doyle said eventually, feeling another flush of embarrassment.

Moonlight glinted off white teeth as she smiled. "Is this going to be a consistent pattern? We argue in public and apologise in private?"

He smiled as he realised her words contained no venom. "Maybe we'll just skip the arguing completely."

"How dull."

"I'm sure we'll find something else to talk about," he replied.

"Depend on it. Have you tried pulling my file yet?" The question came completely out of the blue, leaving Doyle open mouthed and staring.

"No," he managed eventually. "I rather thought Cowley wouldn't approve."

Dark eyes regarded him carefully. "You won't find anything under Morgan Draven," she said.

"So where do you suggest I look?"

She sighed and reached for the sheet, drawing the cool white cotton up to her chin as she lay back on the bed. "I'd suggest telling Cowley I give you permission to look."

"Why don't you just tell me what I'd find?"

She smiled at the ceiling. "Because you'd only need to check against the file anyway." She tilted her head to look at him again. "Why should you believe me? I don't expect you to."

"Most people don't like being checked up on."

"I'm not most people." She curled around, bringing herself half way down the bed, her eyes not leaving his face. "You don't have to apologise, Doyle," she said softly. "Everything you said was true." He didn't know what to say, her words sounding like a confession. She settled back up the bed with a sigh. "The file you need is Andrew Draven," she said at last.

"Andrew?"

"Andrew Draven," she repeated, hearing the question behind his question. "My father. That's the only place you're going to find any mention of Morgan Draven. And it's also what Cowley will understand as my agreement to your pulling the files in the first place."

He nodded, wondering what kind of reception his enquiry would receive. Silently, he padded back to the door. "I'll do that," he agreed, turning back to face her again. "Goodnight," he said, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Goodnight," he heard her whisper.

 

 

Doyle left Bodie in the shower, grabbing another piece of toast as he made his way out the door. He wanted to get to HQ in good time, get the files he wanted, and get back so they could make their way to safe house 17, out at Bourne End on the Thames. It was a quiet house, large and comfortable, with a mooring at the bottom of the garden. He wondered whether Cowley had intended it as a kind of sweetener for the job he had landed them with.

He managed to hide his surprise when Betty produced the files he requested without him having to face the Old Man himself to explain his reasons. He guessed Cowley had assumed the request would be made, and if it was made in the right name, then no further questions needed to be asked. Doyle pondered the files he carried as he walked through the corridors; two thin files, one marked 'Magpie', and a slightly thicker one marked 'Draven, Andrew – dec'd'.

"Doyle!" Murphy's shout stopped him in his tracks. He turned and saw the tall, dark haired agent leaning from the door frame. Murphy gestured with a twitch of his head. "Something else for you."

Doyle ambled over to where the man stood, holding a large envelope in his hand. Something about the dark blue eyes warned him he wasn't going to like this.

"Thought you should see these, now the Old Man's finished with them. Found them in her car when we collected it." Murphy handed the envelope over without another word, the door closing behind him. Doyle muttered his thanks and headed back down the corridor.

Inside the buff envelope, he found four black and white photographs, seven by nine inches. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the images that had been captured.

 

 

The door slamming closed behind the whirlwind that was Ray Doyle, he found himself met with a scene of almost tranquil domestic bliss. Bodie sat, wiping his plate clean with a piece of fried bread and a look of pure unbridled satisfaction on his face. He looked up, not even the sight of Doyle first thing in the morning enough to wipe the smile from his face. The cause of his glee became apparent as Magpie came into view, still clad in Doyle's dark red shirt, and wielding a plate of freshly grilled bacon and scrambled eggs, ready to refill his plate. She turned, halfway through shovelling half the food onto Bodie's plate, and welcomed him with an infectious smile. He found his lips curling in response. The dark circles under her eyes had receded, and with them some of the brittle tiredness that had so affected her the previous day.

"You're in time for breakfast," she said with the same sunny smile. It faltered slightly as she caught sight of the files under his arm. He felt the weight of them in the same instant, and knew that the simple pleasure of breakfast was about to be ruined.

Seeing his hesitation, she fixed her smile more firmly and put the plate in front of the other chair. "Here. Before you waste away." He slid into the seat with a grateful look, leaving the files on the sideboard.

She stood leaning against the door into the kitchen, watching the two men eat with an amused look on her face. When Bodie sat back in his chair, a satiated smirk on his face, she reached for his empty plate and disappeared back into the kitchen, the sound of washing up coming seconds later. Doyle picked up the last piece of bacon, holding it in his teeth as he took his now empty plate into the kitchen. She turned to reach for the plate as he entered, soap suds covering her hands.

"You want to watch it. He can get used to this," he warned, only half joking as he chewed the strip of bacon.

She smiled as she took the plate from his grasp. "And you hate it, of course."

He grinned. "I'm too polite to complain."

"Did you find what you wanted?" Her face was turned back to the sink so he couldn't see her expression, only hear the slight waver in her otherwise calm voice.

He hesitated. "Yes," he admitted after a pause.

He saw her nod slightly, still intent on the washing up. He heard the sound of water escaping the plug, and watched as she quickly and efficiently rinsed the sink clean. She dried her hands on the nearby towel, still with her back to him.

When she finally turned and met his cool, appraising gaze, her features were a calm mask. "Then we'd better have a look through them, hadn't we?"

He gave a quick, eloquent gesture. "Have you eaten?"

Her head quirked to one side in curiosity, a gleam in the violet eyes that he could not interpret. "Something," she admitted. "You want me to leave you and Bodie alone with the files?" Her question caught him by surprise. She seemed to possess a natural ability to disturb his sense of equilibrium, digging up subjects he was trying to avoid. It was a peculiar trait.

"You go and get dressed," he suggested, wanting to buy them all time.

She nodded her agreement, and padded barefoot past him. His gaze followed her as she left the lounge, waiting til he could hear her moving around in the bedroom before reaching for the files he had put out of the way earlier. Bodie's self-satisfied grin faded as he caught the tension in Doyle's jaw, the firm, downward twist of the full lips.

"Trouble?"

The wide green eyes gave nothing away, but would not hold the midnight blue gaze for any length of time. Without a word, he cleared the dining table of the remaining breakfast accoutrements, leaving only the three glasses of fresh orange juice. By the time he was seated, Magpie had reappeared, padding silently on bare feet, dressed in the same tight fitting jeans as yesterday, but with a clean black vest top instead. She took the seat opposite Bodie, Doyle sat between them with the files in front of him. Bodie eyed them with detached interest; Magpie tried not to look at them.

"Magpie," Doyle said, opening the top buff coloured folder, and removing the half a dozen pages therein. He spread them out in front of them on the clean table. "A list of suspected hits, the occasional suspected sighting, and possible contacts."

She glanced over them quickly. "I work alone, always have. The contacts might be my handlers."

"Handlers?" Doyle didn't understand the reference.

She curled up on the chair, hugging her knees to her chest with an almost feline elegance. The defensive position was identical to the way she had sat in the bed for their moonlit chat. "I used one handler for most of my career," she explained. She could have been discussing a mundane event, rather than describing the way a proficient and efficient assassin had operated for over ten years. "I signed up with Georgiu when I was 18; he was my main handler. If anyone wanted me for a job, they contacted him, or one of the other two I used over the years. I contacted them whenever I was looking for work. It kept a healthy distance between me and my employers. I paid them a percentage of the fee; they negotiated, made arrangements, discussed terms. That's a handler's job."

"How often did you look for work?" Bodie cast an eye over the list of suspected hits.

"I contacted Georgiu usually at least once a month. The others, maybe once every quarter. Georgiu was my main handler. He's the one who gave me the name Magpie."

Bodie's keen gaze shifted to her. "How's that?"

She stretched one leg out, reaching for the glass of orange juice. The movement was more to avoid the searching look in the blue eyes. "He named all the cleaners in his stables, gave them code names. Sometimes the names changed for each job. He called me Magpie, and it stuck." She met the gaze steadily when her explanation was given.

Bodie gave a quick nod, indicating his understanding. "You prefer the term 'cleaner', do you?"

She shrugged. "It's less glamorous," she said. "People have a rather romantic view of assassins." She smiled softly. "Like we're all James Bond, or Raffles, or something."

He pushed the piece of paper across the table to her. "Is this accurate?"

She leaned forward, casting her eye down the neatly typed rows of names and dates. "Not particularly," she admitted.

"Who was the first?" Doyle's voice was quiet but firm. Bodie braced himself for another attack of righteous indignation from his partner.

Magpie seemed to sense the tension. She took another sip of orange juice, buying time. "March, 1971. Three brothers on a Greek island." She stared out of the window behind Bodie, remembering, reporting the details in a clear, quiet voice. "They operated a paedophile ring, child prostitution, covering areas of the Med and into the Middle East. They made the mistake of grabbing a distant relative of one of the Families in Sicily. Trouble is, they were very rich, very powerful, and no-one would take them on, not even the Family."

"1971. You were – what – 17?"

"18," she corrected Doyle without hesitation. "No reputation, no-one would touch me. I needed a job no-one else would touch, make my name. I didn't think I had time to mess about going through the usual channels people in my business go through."

"That would mean taking a suicide trip," Bodie said.

"Except I had no intention of committing suicide," she replied calmly. "Five cleaners went in to take them out before me. Four of them were killed. When I went in, there were another two cleaners on the same job. They didn't get close. Too much protection." She shrugged. "I got in, did the hit, and got out again to pick up the wages. After a job like that, it didn't take long for Georgiu to get me more work."

Bodie gave a sigh, pushing the other papers back to Doyle. "Not the best way to get started," he said.

"I disagree," she said softly. "There's no better way than starting by completing a job all your more expensive and more experienced rivals failed at." There was a tinge of defiance in her voice, daring them to disagree; a certain professional pride to her attitude.

Doyle gathered the papers together, folding the buff file together and putting it back to the bottom of the pile.

"Anyway, the file on Magpie doesn't turn up much," he said flatly. He opened the next, rather thicker folder, spreading out the pages with more care. Black and white photographs were carefully placed on the table, each one telling its own story.

He heard the slight catch in her breathing as she saw the cold, stark reality the photographs displayed. Refusing to look at her or his partner, he looked through the reports he held in his hand.

"Andrew Draven. Detective Sergeant Andrew Draven," he read. "Died August, 1967. Aged 43. Gunshot wound to the base of the skull, delivered at point blank range. Autopsy revealed signs of trauma, victim believed to have been tortured before death."

Magpie leaned over the table, her attention riveted on the photographs. She reached out towards one, fingers stopping before they touched the surface of the picture. Doyle continued his summation of the documents held in front of him.

"Inquest held, decided that DS Draven had been on the take, tortured and executed by his underworld paymasters." Bodie noticed the control Doyle exercised in his report; his partner despised corrupt coppers. Even so, it was difficult to look at the photos of a dead man, lying naked in a pool of his own blood and urine, the bruises, cuts and welts on his skin showing as a dappled greying in the black and white pictures. The face was gone, nothing but a seeping, bleeding maw of an exit wound from a bullet fired straight into the back of his skull.

"Death certificate and autopsy," Doyle continued in the same matter of fact voice. "Morgan Draven." Bodie's head shot up, attention divided between the strangely distant Magpie and the professional detachment Doyle had adopted. He looked at the photograph beneath Magpie's hovering fingers. It was difficult to make out what was in the image. There seemed to be a lot of blood, black in the colourless picture.

"Signs of strangulation, sexual assault. Death due to peritonitis and blood loss following disembowelment."

The photograph under her hand swam into focus for Bodie, cross-referenced with the other ones lying nearby. A slim, naked woman-child, eyes staring blindly at the camera as though dead, blood trickling from split lip, smearing over her face; her neck mottled, showing the burn of the rope that lay loosely around her throat. And above and beyond that, the strange, unreal gash that laid open her insides, the slick, grey knots of intestines sliding out across her body to glisten on the floor in a pool of blood.

The death certificate landed on top of the pile of photographs. "Aged 14." Doyle's voice betrayed the anger the information caused him. He tried to control it, hoping to maintain the cool detachment he sensed Magpie would need. She would not thank them for pity; she would despise any sign of sympathy.

Magpie seemed oblivious to the intent gaze fixed on her by the two agents. Idly, her fingers curled around the photograph at last, drawing it closer to her. "Hanged, drawn and quartered," she murmured softly. "Well, two out of three almost."

"They're good photos," Bodie said, with a sudden gust of breath. "How did they manage them?"

"They're real," she said softly, her voice strangely vague. "Cowley got me to pose for the autopsy photos. The autopsy report is just rephrased to make it sound like I was dead." Her finger traced the outline of the wounds. "I've never seen them before," she murmured.

"You survived that?" Bodie couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "How could you survive that?"

Something in his voice broke through her reverie. Abruptly, she stood up, undoing the top of her jeans quickly and economically. Before Doyle or Bodie could react, she had exposed her midriff, lifting the bottom of her top to allow a clear view of the ragged scar that ran along the top of her white cotton panties, from hip bone to hip bone, and vertically up to below her navel. The scar was obviously old, but age could not disguise the damage caused. It was all too easy to see how a knife had plunged into one side, before being dragged through the flesh and muscle, catching, tearing, ripping where it did not slice. Bodie didn't know who was responsible for the drawing breath of disgust at the sight, but he saw the twist in her lips as she heard the sound.

"Oh yes. Scared off a few prospective boyfriends, that has," she said with cold hardness.

Her nerve seemed to leave her, and she corrected her dress before resuming her seat, a sudden flush in her cheek. She did not seem able to meet their gaze. She turned back to the photograph in front of her, holding it in both hands. "They left me for dead, shot my Dad, then cleaned up the scene and scarpered. I don't know how long I lay there, but I realised that I was in pain. And if I was in pain, I was alive. So I dragged myself to the 'phone – you can see the blood patterns here." She pointed at the smears showing on the floor next to the body in the photograph. "For some reason, they hadn't disconnected the 'phone. I called Cowley. He saw to the rest."

"These pictures – they're all real, aren't they?" Doyle's question was gentle, coaxing.

She nodded slowly. "Dad wasn't on the take, though. They just made it look like that. Cowley could save me, but not Dad's reputation. That's why he made me disappear. It was safest."

"You were reported dead at the scene."

"They stitched me up, gave me blood. Hysterectomy." Doyle could hear the old pain, hidden deep behind the calm voice. "Took two years of physio to get the muscles and skin flexible enough for me to even start making it stronger than before." She replaced the photograph on the table, pushing it back to meet the others. Her gaze moved to the other nearest her, and she reached to pull it closer. "They wanted some information Dad was holding, see. He wouldn't tell them. Didn't matter what they did to him, he wouldn't tell them." There was pride in her voice, but her eyes were dry and glassy. "It was only when they started on me he started to talk." A thin edge of disgust twisted her lips. "I was his weakness, see."

Silently, Doyle placed the photographs from the envelope Murphy had given him over the top of the old scene of crimes photos. Bodie reached for one, instantly recognising the images. Doyle watched as recognition crept through Magpie's awareness, bringing her back from the horrors of the past to the nightmare of the present.

She reached for one of the pictures, a frown creasing her face. "This is me," she said softly, seeing the image of herself, caught locking the door of the Quattro. She noticed the clothing and the surrounding area. "This is yesterday."

"Yep," Doyle said softly, pushing another one towards her. In it, she could be seen leaving the CI5 building, Bodie and Doyle clearly flanking her.

Large violet eyes, sparkling with anger, raised to meet his gaze. "Where did these come from?" she demanded, her voice breaking in her fury.

"Murphy found them on the seat of your car, in an envelope. When he went to collect it."

"Holy shit!" Bodie's explosion was quiet, but forceful. "They're already fucking well onto us."

"Yeah." Doyle's voice was a lot calmer than he felt as he placed the last photograph on top of the pile.

It took a few seconds for the image to make sense. Initially, it was a jumble of door frame, hair, and blood. When the brain sifted through the image, it became clearer. A dog – an Irish Wolfhound – front paws splayed open, somehow impossibly suspended from a large wooden door. A noose could be discerned around its neck. The tongue lolled from the slack mouth.

"Finn." Magpie's voice was a thin whisper. Bodie met Doyle's look – neither one could bring themselves to speak, knowing that words were useless, unwanted and insufficient in any case, to summarise the things that had been uncovered. The intensely private, secretive, elusive Magpie suddenly laid open, bare to their eyes.

Yet she managed to maintain her silent dignity, still managed to retain an air of secrecy about her. They realised that, no matter what they had found out in the last few minutes, questions still remained. The violet eyes were dry, and when she raised her gaze to meet theirs, the indigo depths retained their air of defiance. Magpie was many things, it seemed, but a victim was not one of them.

Her face closed on her emotions as she drew back from the pictures on the table and sat straighter in her chair. "Anything else?"

Doyle and Bodie exchanged glances, before Doyle shrugged with careful nonchalance. "We do need to work out a list of possible suspects," he ventured.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, don't look at me. I haven't a clue."

"Rejected lovers?" Bodie rode out the glare from Doyle with calm equanimity. In contrast, Magpie's look was almost scornful.

"No."

"Ah, not even one?"

>

Doyle groaned inwardly at the mischievous wheedle in Bodie's voice. Magpie, however, seemed to find his irreverence amusing.

"No one's ever loved me enough to want me dead," she said with a smile. Despite her levity, there was a world of meaning behind the words. "I don't go in for long-term relationships. No complications."

Bodie groaned. "Where have you been all my life? Beretta, Quattro, no strings..." He threw his hands in the air in mock distress, easing back in his chair with a wry look at Doyle.

"Bodie." There was a warning edge in Doyle's voice.

Magpie grinned, genuine amusement lighting her dark eyes. "It's alright, Doyle," she said gently. "I'm not made of china." She met his direct gaze easily. "I know exactly what I am. There's not many who can make that assertion." Her gaze lowered to the photographs spread out in front of them again, and she reached out to gather them together. "I was engaged for eight months, nearly five years ago. That's the only long-term relationship I've ever had. Chris went off to New York. It was perfectly amicable."

"Amicable?" Doyle left the question hanging.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I wasn't going to New York. I let him have his dignity, let him call the shots. Let him call it off."

He shook his head slowly. "Poor bastard," he breathed. "Did you even love him?"

She met the challenge in his eyes with a sharp look. "I was fond of him. I didn't want to hurt him," she said firmly.

"That's a no, then."

She ignored the venom in Doyle's voice. "He was in love with an unemployed dance teacher, living off a personal injuries pay-off, called Jackie Flaherty," she said, an edge to her voice. "You might think it was cruel not to love him. I think it was crueller to lie to him." She picked up the pile of photographs and handed them to him. "I could pretend to be the person he loved, but I couldn't turn into them. No matter how much I wanted to."

"You could have tried telling him the truth."

She sighed. "And what do you tell your girlfriends, hmm? 'Hello, darlin' – I'm a model for _Guns and Warfare_ and that's why I'm wearin' the shoulder holster and carryin' a Hi-Power'." A sneer twisted her lip. "I don't know how your love lives play out, but I can't imagine one where I waltz up to a bloke in a pub and say, 'Oh – you're accountant – how fascinating! I'm a burned out, washed up ex-assassin, and I know seventeen different ways to kill you with one hand tied behind my back'."

Doyle got to his feet, his movements fluid and sudden. Part of his mind realised that, yet again, she had managed to provoke him without even trying. His anger fast evaporating into frustration, he turned to find Bodie trying unsuccessfully to stifle a smile, the dark blue eyes twinkling with evil amusement. It was infectious. Doyle's angry scowl turned into a wide grin. He flicked a look to Magpie, his green eyes dark with laughter.

"Seventeen, eh?" he said, his chipped tooth glinted as he smiled. "Well, it beats most chat-up lines."

She gave him a wide-eyed look, bemusement dissolving her dark mood. A smile slowly spread across her face. "You're just easy," she said.

 

 

It was an elegant plan, Bodie had to admit. The surveillance photos proved that safety measures had to be applied. It was actually quite refreshing to have a target who understood completely what they were trying to achieve.

The photograph of them escorting Magpie the previous day was a wound to their professional pride. Bodie's grim determination was eclipsed by the almost feral gleam in Doyle's eye, an almost wanton desire to flush the stalker out and deal with the threat. In comparison, Magpie's attitude was detached, clinical, listening attentively to the discussion. It had drawn a comment from Bodie.

"You're not saying much. This is your life we're talking about here."

It had earned him a dry smile. "When you say or do something wrong, I'll be sure to tell you," she had said.

A call to HQ brought Murphy in Doyle's RS2000. The plan was for Doyle to take Murphy back to HQ, then continue to the safe house. Bodie would leave half an hour later in his Capri, and go straight to the safe house. Both men would be on the lookout for anyone tailing them. In the meantime, Magpie would escape via the fire exit at the back of the apartment, run around the back alleys checking for any pursuit, before rendezvousing with Doyle, who would take a circuitous route through the one-way systems to meet her just under a mile from the flat. If there were any problems, she was to rendezvous with Bodie an hour later. There was the danger she would be caught alone, without back up, but the likelihood was that anyone watching the flat would assume Doyle had left her with Bodie while he took Murphy to HQ. When Bodie left on his own, they might think she had been left alone, or suspect she had already gone. Either way, by the time they came to that conclusion, she would be long gone.

Doyle and Murphy watched carefully, all the while showing no signs of being watchful. The RS wove in and out of traffic, drawing a line through London like the wandering steps of a drunkard. Murphy dove out of the car to linger at the gates of the multi-storey car park as Doyle slid and screamed up to the second level for the assignation with Magpie. He found a space and parked, leaving the engine running and scanning between the cars for any sign of her or any tail. Even so, the sudden appearance of the black clad, black haired figure by the passenger door made him reach for his SIG P220.

She grinned at his startled look, hiding her own surprise at the speed of his reaction. She should know better than underestimate him after all, she remembered. Without a word, she slid into the back seat, closing the passenger door and setting the seat back. Doyle gave her time to settle on the back seat.

"Sorted?"

"Yep," she replied, slightly muffled as she snuggled down into the upholstery.

"Any problems?"

"Nothing."

Doyle gave a frown. "Are you okay?" She had been pale when she got into the car, he remembered, and her voice seemed somehow changed. Back to the brittle undertones of the previous day, he realised.

She hesitated. She could lie, she knew. She could say she was fine, and it wouldn't really be important how tired she felt, how the short jog of less than a mile – more than a mile after she had doubled back and turned to ensure she was alone – had left her more weary than it had any right to. But this was Doyle, and for some reason the idea of lying to him was foreign somehow. Wrong. Like kicking a puppy, she thought. She wondered why.

"Tired," she said at last. "Not quite recharged the batteries yet."

Doyle accepted the short explanation, not pushing for more or commenting further. Instead, he smoothly put the car into gear and left the car park, picking up Murphy on the exit ramp.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing at all. Have a Marathon." Murphy grinned as he handed over a chocolate bar, happily chomping on a Mars Bar himself.

Doyle returned the grin, taking the bar and throwing it into the back seat. He saw in the rear view mirror her hand raise to catch it instinctively, and his smile broadened. Not so tired as all that, he thought with a strange feeling of pride.

"Murphy. Meet Maggie Draven." He kept a close look on her face in the mirror, catching the quick look she threw him before she settled back into the seats, her lips wrapped around the chocolate bar in a strangely sensual fashion that brought a sudden shock to Doyle's groin. He tore his eyes away, determined not to dwell on those cupid's bow lips and the thought of the chocolate melting in the heat of her mouth. He felt his throat constrict. Where the hell had that come from?

Murphy cast a quick look in the rear seat and gave an imperceptible nod of greeting. "Hello, there," he said, his voice warm while his features remained impassive for the benefits of anyone watching.

She murmured a welcome from around the chocolate bar, and Doyle felt another pang. He squirmed, unable to hide his annoyance as well as the cause of his discomfort. If Murphy recognised the woman from the photographs, he kept the thought to himself. Instead, he relied on safe ground.

"I fetched your car yesterday. Very nice."

"Bodie's already got first refusals," she said, her words slightly distorted as she chewed. "Typical blokes, the lot of you." There was no mistaking the teasing in her voice.

"Yeah well, considering all the other things we could think about, you should count your lucky stars," Doyle teased, only too aware of the thoughts he currently harboured.

"It's the car. Blokes love the car."

"You get your head down and..."

"What? Do you a favour?" Her voice was laced with chocolate and laughter, and had no rights making his cock jump at the thought her words provoked.

"Get some sleep," he finished, flashing a look to her via the mirror. He caught the edge of her grin, knowing she couldn't possibly realise the reaction he was having and yet nursing a suspicion that she knew all too well.

The rustle of a discarded sweet wrapper preceded her reply. "Anything you say, Mop Top. Pleasure to meet you, Murphy."

"And you," he replied, not turning around, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the cars around them.

Doyle caught Murphy stifling a grin and rolled his eyes theatrically.

"Never a dull moment, eh?" Murphy said.

Doyle shook his head. "You don't want to swap, do you, Murph?"

"Y'know, I could be offended." The voice from the back seat was heavy with sarcasm.

Murphy gave a deep throated laugh. "You're on your own, my son."

They spent the remainder of the ride in companionable silence, pulling up outside HQ a few minutes later. Murphy got out, scanning his surroundings with careful nonchalance before leaning back into the car.

"All clear, Ray. Thanks for the lift."

"No problems, Murph."

"Thanks, Murphy," came a quiet voice from the back.

Murphy gave a smile. "Pleasure. Take care." And with a quick nod to Doyle, he closed the door and strode into HQ.

Doyle watched him go, picking up his R/T and studiously ignoring the sprawled figure on the back seat.

"3-7."

"3-7. Over," came the reply within seconds.

"Dropped Murph off. I'll see you at the house. Over."

"Roger."

He allowed himself a quick look on the back seat as he pulled back into traffic, hiding the glance behind his manouevre.

"You okay back there?"

"I'm asleep."

>

He grinned. "Sounds like it."

"I talk in my sleep."

"I shall look forward to that."

"Oh. Planning on sleeping with me, then?" Her tone was playful.

"Only if you ask nicely."

"Tease."

"About an hour to the safe house, depending on traffic and what routes I take, so have a kip if you can," he said kindly.

"Sleep on a clothes line, me," she assured him.

"I've yet to see evidence of it," he replied. "Go on. Kip," he said firmly.

He heard a dramatic sigh from the back, and continued driving, concentrating with practiced ease on the road and watching for any pursuit. He drove carefully and smoothly for a change, aware of the prone body on the back seat.

They were barely ten minutes away from HQ when the radio broke the silence.

"Control to 4-5."

"4-5. Over."

"Confirm the current position of the target."

Doyle stifled his irritation. "Safe," he snapped.

"State whereabouts." The impersonal voice seemed oblivious to Doyle's ill-concealed temper.

"Whereabouts – safe," he repeated, his voice rising in anger. He replaced the handset with more force than necessary. "Does Cowley always babysit you like this?" he asked with a frown.

"You kidding? I didn't speak to him for four years."

"That must have been very peaceful," he said with a smile.

She did not reply, and his smile faded as he noticed the enveloping silence. He wondered what had triggered the sudden change. When she eventually spoke, he could hear the careful consideration behind her words.

"I let him down," she said, her voice heavy. "I won't tell you how many I killed, or how much money I made, in those four years."

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes flickering to the mirror to catch sight of her. All he could see was from waist to knee, the angle of the mirror denying him the expression on her face as she replied.

"You've probably already worked out that my first kills weren't done for money."

He pursed his lips, conceding the point. "It had occurred to us, yes," he admitted carefully. An uneasy truce appeared to have broken out between them again and he did not want to damage it.

"No surprise there. You're clever boys." Her voice was tinged with amusement. Doyle realised it was her way of trying to put him at ease.

"Thanks," he managed, matching her teasing tone.

"Don't mention it."

She paused and he resisted the temptation to prompt her, sensing she needed time to chose her words. "Then you'll probably have guessed that the first men I killed were the ones who murdered my father."

And who had attacked her, raped and tortured her, left her for dead. She didn't mention that, Doyle noticed, but it was implicit in her words.

"Seems logical," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

"Well, Cowley didn't approve," she said. There was no accusations in her voice; she simply relayed the facts. "Thought I'd gone psycho. Uncontrollable. Poor bloke." Genuine sympathy tinged her voice, curiously at odds with her story.

"Couldn't turn me in, not when he'd worked so hard and called in so many favours to make sure I didn't exist any more. Couldn't kill me either, not when I was supposed to be dead already."

An image returned to Doyle : Bodie, black leather and face twisted with hatred with a man's neck in his hands – and Cowley standing beside him, with the snub nose of his revolver next to the pale, angry face. Cowley knew about revenge, Doyle thought.

"So what happened?"

"He shouted a lot. Was still shouting when I left. I didn't come back for four years."

Doyle negotiated the roundabout, checking for any suspiciously familiar cars around them. "Must have been difficult." Even as he said it, he realised it was a pathetic understatement. A 17 year old girl, out alone in the world, hurt and traumatised. No parents, no friends, no name, no identity. Difficult didn't cover it. Impossible seemed more accurate.

A sudden thought creased Doyle's forehead in a frown. "The file doesn't mention your mother."

"Doesn't it?" Her disinterest did not seem feigned, he noticed curiously.

"What happened to her?"

He saw movement in the rear mirror as she shifted slightly. "No idea. She left when I was a baby, about ten months old."

"And you never tried to find her?"

"No. Never needed her, never missed her. Never wanted to know." There was a certain finality about her words, yet some strange sense told him she wasn't lying, not even to hide old wounds or injured pride.

"You think that's strange?" she asked, when Doyle did not comment.

He hesitated. "Well, most people like to find out," he admitted.

"Yeah. Well, I'm not most people," she said, her voice harsh. "I never missed the woman. She left me. Left us. She might be dead, she might be desperate, or she might be loaded. I don't care. She didn't care about me. I'm just respecting her decision."

There didn't seem to be much Doyle could say to that. He drove on in silence, letting her rest. Once they left the hustle of busy city streets, he began to enjoy the drive; the tree lined roads, resplendent in summer green, sweeping through into Cliveden and beyond. The traffic thinned out at first, then disappeared to nothing but the occasional car. He slowed the throaty two-litre engine to a gentle purr as he went past horses and their riders. It was a perfect day for driving, and a route he could enjoy, losing himself in the pleasures of the drive.

They had just passed the gates to the beautiful house at Cliveden – scene of the greatest political scandal of the 60s – when he heard a gasp from the back seat. The quiet road allowed him the opportunity to glance quickly behind him. Magpie lay, half raised, across the back seat, her hands clutching her stomach. He thought it was merely a bad dream jolting her awake, until he caught a glimpse of her face, contorted with pain.

"You okay?" he asked sharply. Before she could reply, he indicated, pulling in by the side of the blessedly empty road. He turned around in his seat, leaning on the headrest to look at her properly. Her breath was short and ragged, muscles taut, raising her torso from the seat as she spasmed.

"Fine," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm fine."

"Looks like it." Concern creased his brow. "What's wrong?"

She seemed to relax slowly back into the seat, her grimace of pain easing. She opened her eyes, bright with unshed tears, and caught his worried look. He saw the flush of embarrassment colour her cheeks as she looked away quickly, unwilling to meet his gaze.

"It's okay, honest," she insisted. "It's just..." She hesitated. "Tissue damage," she finished reluctantly. "It's got worse the last few years."

He gave a quick nod of understanding. "Anything you need?" he asked, keeping his tone business like, allowing her some dignity in her moment of weakness.

She shook her head, her breathing returning to normal as the pain receded. "No, thank you."

He turned back to face the front, getting ready to pull out again, when he felt her pull herself up against the head rest. He turned slightly, finding her face so close to his they shared breath.

"Cowley doesn't know," she said quickly. "No-one does."

He met her gaze, her eyes dark and pleading, and wondered if he would regret his decision. "He won't hear it from me," he said softly. He turned away from the open gratitude on her face and pulled out back onto the road. He saw her settle down again across the back seat, catching her movements in the reflection of the rear view mirror.

"So is that why you retired?" he asked at last, curiousity piqued. He heard her hesitation and wondered if he had pushed too far.

"Partly," she admitted at last, with obvious reluctance. "It's a weakness, of course. Means I have to be careful to avoid punches to the stomach, that kind of thing."

"Which would explain why your style is more defensive than offensive," he remarked.

"Well, I dunno about not being offensive....." she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "But you're right. I can't attack that well. I have to avoid further damage."

"So where did you learn?" He negotiated the smooth, sweeping bends with ease.

"I studied ballet from when I was 4," she said, seemingly relaxed now and answering him easily. "After the... attack," she hesitated briefly on the word. "Well, it took a while for the tissue to repair enough. But when it was good enough, I went back to some ballet, then different martial arts. I spent nearly four years in Hong Kong."

She seemed comfortable relating facts, keeping away from anything more personal, he noticed.

"Must have been educational." He kept his voice natural, not overly curious or judgemental.

"You could say that," she said, her voice the same neutral tone as his.

He sensed her closing up again, reinstating the barriers and secrecy. He turned into the side road, following the road round the side of the marina, crossing the railway tracks and entering the access road to the house. This safe house was only approached by river or the access road. It could make it an easily defended position in the right hands; otherwise, it could easily turn into a trap.

"Well, Cowley picked a good place to hide out," he said, trying to engage her in conversation again.

"All I can see is sky," she said. "And footprints on the roof lining."

Doyle gave a grin, hearing the teasing note in her deadpan voice. "There are no footprints on the roof lining," he said solemnly.

"They look like yours," she interrupted.

"No way. I have more class than that," he insisted.

"Size 8 or 9," she said, pretending to ignore his protestations.

He gave a dirty chuckle as he parked the car in front of the house. "Sex on the back seat is not my idea of a good time."

"You haven't lived."

"It cramps my style," he said, turning in his seat to look at her. As expected, she was grinning, violet eyes shining with laughter. "We're here," he added, turning off the ignition.

"About time." Her sulky act was ruined by her smile. "I think I've bonded to the back seat."

He opened the door, moving the chair aside to allow her out of the back. She uncoiled with audible relief, but he noticed her gaze scanning the surroundings, even as he did the same.

"Where's Bodie?" she asked, her voice suddenly business-like.

Doyle shrugged. "There's a garage round the back. He may be there, or still on his way."

She nodded. "Strange bloke, your partner," she said.

He gave her a quick look. "Bodie's alright," he said, a defensive note creeping into his voice.

She pretended not to hear it, looking around the house with a practiced eye. "Never said he wasn't," she said. "Still. CI5 isn't exactly interested in normal people, is it."

Doyle locked the car and approached the front door of the house. "You'd fit right in," he replied, teasing.

He didn't see her grin as he found the keys and unlocked the front door.

"What makes you so sure I wasn't asked?"

He turned around, unable to hide the surprise in his large eyes, and caught her smile. He turned back to the door, entering the hallway and immediately dealing with the alarms, using the time to process the notion she had presented.

"Cowley asked you to join, did he?" he said at last, his voice carefully nonchalant.

She closed the door behind her and stood in the hallway, rucksack held in both hands in front of her. "Once," she admitted. "I refused."

"Why's that?"

She gave a small, tight smile and a quick shrug. "I don't mix well with others," she said softly.

He gave an understanding nod before moving further into the house to explore.

"Well, no Bodie," he said, entering the kitchen and casting an eye over the layout.

"Always to be found in the kitchen, is he?"

"Ah, well – he's a growing lad," Doyle said with a grin, leading the way into the lounge. He checked each room downstairs quickly and efficiently, before taking the stairs two at a time and doing the same methodical check upstairs. He padded back down the stairs at a more sedate pace, and found her in the kitchen. The kettle had just started to hiss, and she was searching through cupboards for mugs and tea.

"It'll have to be black," she said, when she saw him, knowing without asking that he would want a drink.

"That's fine."

The kitchen was a dual aspect room, allowing for views to the side through a large sash window, and to the rear of the property through French doors, a rough pine kitchen table sitting in front of the patio doors leading to the long, well maintained lawn, which spread in dark and light green stripes down to the river. On the opposite bank, a narrow tow path could be seen, edging the sprawling fields. Cows huddled together in corners or wandered slowly across the greenery. The Thames separated them from the rural bliss, but Doyle felt like he could almost reach out and touch them.

He was aware of her standing beside him and took the proffered mug of black tea with genuine thanks. "By the way, there's a bag of clothes in the boot," he added. "Murph rescued them from your Quattro."

She nodded, sipping her hot tea carefully. "Thank God for that," she said. "Didn't fancy the alternative."

"This could be a long op," he said carefully, his gaze still fixed on the tranquil scene.

"Well, Cowley did say we would be drawing them out."

He masked his hesitation by taking a slurping drink of his tea. He had wondered whether she had remembered Cowley's darker side of the bargain. Cowley wanted to know who the threat was, and it seemed logical that it meant the threat was greater than that posed to Magpie alone. Cowley may not be above using CI5 for personal issues, but he would always have in mind something else, something bigger. Doyle doubted the threat to the old man's god-daughter was the sole reason for their mission.

"We'll draw him out on our terms," he said firmly. He turned to meet her gaze, his green eyes hard and determined. "That's why we're here. Back up."

She smiled at his reassuring manner. "I'm not used to back up."

The hard eyes softened. "Well get used to it."

 

 

He left her to unpack, prowling carefully around the property as he waited for Bodie to arrive. He had summarily packed Magpie off to her room when her pacing threatened to wear out the carpets. He had heard her running a bath, noting with approval the considerable time she spent in there. He had the feeling that the Magpie they were seeing was a somewhat diluted version. Something told him she was actually weaker than she seemed. The stomach cramps, added to the exhaustion and lack of food probably meant she wasn't anywhere near her usual standard. And he was curious as to what that standard would be.

It was approaching late afternoon by the time the gravel crunched under the wheels of the silver Capri, heralding Bodie's arrival. Magpie had retreated to her room, dark blue eyes heavy with tiredness. The bath had obviously relaxed her enough that her weariness was more apparent. He had taken one look at the bedraggled figure, towel wrapped around a slim body bordering on thinness, and nodded to her room in silent command. That she had obeyed him without question only reinforced his opinion on her mental and physical state.

He opened the door to his partner as the engine purred to a halt, waiting with arms folded, leaning against the door frame in his customary loose limbed fashion.

"You took your time."

Bodie greeted Doyle's comment with a pursed lipped smile, locking the car and striding towards him. The dark blue gaze scanned the area in the same way Doyle had done on his arrival.

"Any problems?"

Doyle shook his head. "Nothing. You?"

Doyle's face creased into a frown as he caught Bodie's expression.

"Control haven't been in touch?"

Doyle shook his head again. "No. Why?"

Bodie sighed, wondering – not for the first time – why it always seemed to be left to him to deal with an enraged Ray Doyle.

"I got called back to your place just over an hour after I left," he began, watching the anger build behind his partner's green eyes with its customary speed and intensity. "Your flat was broken into," he announced.

Doyle blinked once – the calm before the storm. He straightened. "You what?"

"I got called back to check it out," Bodie explained as Doyle ran his fingers through his hair, beginning to fidget in his agitation.

"Well? What happened?" he demanded angrily.

"Nothing," Bodie said, his calmness all the more noticeable contrasted to his partner's volatile temper. "Nothing taken, nothing damaged." He waited for the meaning to sink into the curly head, knowing it wouldn't be a long wait.

"They were after Magpie," Doyle said, the softness of his voice in direct contrast to the anger in his eyes. "Bastards were after her," he snarled with more venom.

"Looks like it." Bodie's expression softened. "Look, mate. I'm parched. I've been driving around for over three hours now. Can we have this discussion over a mug of tea?" His schoolboy wheedling got through even Doyle's temper, and he moved back into the house, knowing Bodie would follow.

"Maggie's asleep – or should be. Dead on her feet, pretty much," he explained as he led the way to the kitchen.

"Probably best thing for her," Bodie agreed.

Doyle started the timeless routine of tea making. "So what happened at the flat?"

Bodie looked out over the Thames, enjoying the same view that had entranced Doyle earlier. "Nothing. They broke in, but then they weren't looking for anything. Control called it in and Anson and Lake went round to check. Called me back just to make sure."

Doyle stared into nothing. "Did you get a call from Control asking if Maggie was with you?" he asked finally, his voice quiet. He turned to face Bodie when he didn't get an answer, and saw the same discomfort on his partner's face that he felt. "When I dropped Murph off, I was asked where she was."

Bodie looked pale and serious. "Half hour after I left the flat."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing."

"Me neither."

The two men regarded each other, neither one willing to give voice to their growing suspicions.

"Cowley wouldn't set his god-daughter up, would he?" Doyle couldn't quite bring himself to believe it of the old man, but at the same time, Cowley was not above doing whatever was necessary to keep England smelling sweet and ever-so slightly of lavender.

Bodie pursed his lips, considering the options with the keen intellect he normally tried to hide. "Not like this, he wouldn't," he said at last. "He wouldn't need to."

Doyle turned the matter over in his mind as he poured boiling water into mugs, weighing his partner's words carefully. "No. It wouldn't make sense," he agreed at last. He sighed, leaning against the counter with both hands and staring into the hot water, watching the swirls of tea darken the liquid. "So he wants to flush out some security breaches," he said.

"Could be." Bodie's voice was clipped and precise. "Always assuming the breaches are with us."

Doyle turned to meet the navy blue gaze again. "You think it's the Spooks?"

Bodie shrugged. "Wouldn't put it past MI6, that's for sure," he said calmly, walking over to Doyle and reaching for a mug of tea. He fished the tea bag out fastidiously and heaped sugar into the white mug. "Maggie's probably done work for MI6. Maybe they're clearing house."

"Not allowed to retire peacefully, is she?"

Bodie took a careful sip of tea, relishing the taste. "MI6 take a different view of what retirement means," he answered. "They take a more euphemistic approach."

Doyle picked up his mug and considered the contents. "Bastards," he said at last, with feeling.

Bodie held up his mug in agreement. "No argument from me on that one."

Doyle slurped his tea, his mind back in the past, where Bodie stood on a gantry, and a woman lay dead at their feet – shot in the back by her own side. The look of betrayal in Bodie's dark gaze still haunted him.

"So what now?"

Bodie took a long drink of tea. "Wait."

"For what?"

He turned his sapphire gaze to Doyle. "For some miserable bastard to make a mistake."

Doyle gave a rueful smile, raising his mug to his lips. "Let's just hope it's not us."

"I'll drink to that."

 

 

Doyle decided against using the telephone to contact Control. Bodie had assured him his flat and its contents were secure, and he didn't want to discuss potential security breaches over a possibly compromised line. Anyway, it never did to tell Cowley something he already knew

He left Bodie on guard as he walked the short distance to the main road. Bourne End boasted Chinese, Indian and fish and chips takeaways, so Bodie would be pleased. He found the small supermarket down a side road by the garage, and bought some perishables – milk, fresh vegetables, fruit. He collected the carrier bags together and made his way back to the house, always wary for any suspicious behaviour. He didn't notice anything unusual, neither did he feel the prickle across the back of his neck that usually warned him of surveillance. Given what had happened, though, he didn't find this reassuring. Instead, he was left with the suspicion that the only reason they hadn't been followed was because the mysterious stalker already knew where they would be.

Bodie hovered with his usual childish glee as Doyle unpacked the provisions, giving a pout when he found Doyle had neglected to buy any chocolate cakes. Doyle swatted Bodie's washboard stomach playfully.

“Got to watch that girlish figure, mate,” he teased.

Bodie feigned petulance, but it wasn't convincing, especially to someone who had known him as long as Doyle.

“Any movement from upstairs?” Doyle busied himself chopping vegetables and preparing a light meal.

Bodie shook his head. “Not a murmur.” He watched Doyle's preparations with a critical eye. “Y'know, all this healthy eating malarkey is all very well, but it's nothing a few sausages and rashers of bacon wouldn't improve.”

Doyle ignored him, his hands stilled as he turned to Bodie with a frown. “You don't think she's done a runner, do you?” he asked suddenly.

Bodie's expression turned serious. “Suspicious, aren't you?” he said quietly.

Doyle's gaze flickered to the stairs, just visible from the open kitchen door. “Well, we don't know much about her.”

“Who does?”

Bodie watched as Doyle weighed the options, seeing the serious look in the green eyes as he deliberated over the little they knew about Magpie. He gave a sigh. “You carry on cooking, I'll go and take a look.” He stole a carrot from under Doyle's knife with a boyish grin before striding off with his familiar loping gait. At the foot of the stairs, all trace of childishness fell away. For all his playfulness, Bodie was only ever a heartbeat away from jungle predator; sometimes less than that. He crept up the stairs soundlessly, moving like a shadow. His keen gaze flicked from room to room. Only one door was closed, indicating the room Magpie occupied. His footsteps lighter than breathing brought him before the door, noting it was not quite closed. His movements slow and careful, he pushed the door softly, opening it wide enough to allow him to look inside the room.

Magpie lay sprawled across the large double bed, her limbs splayed out in reckless abandon. Taking no more than a split second to assess the situation, noting the slow, steady breathing, Bodie silently closed the door again and padded back down the stairs. At the door to the kitchen, the predator switched seamlessly back into the overgrown schoolboy persona.

“Sleeping like a babe,” he announced as Doyle looked up at him in silent question.

A slight smile lifted his lips. “Hope you didn't wake her.”

Bodie shook his head, leaping effortlessly to sit on the work surface behind Doyle. “Nah. Plenty of experience creeping around birds' bedrooms, me.” He gave a rakish grin.

Doyle chose not to comment, wiping his hands on the tea towel before throwing it at Bodie's head. “Don't touch anything – I'm off for a shower.”

“That's torture, that is. Against Geneva Convention.”

Doyle didn't stop on his way out the room. “Never signed it, mate.”


	2. Chapter 2

The cool, clean water washed the car smell from his hair and the grittiness from his face. He towelled himself dry vigorously, raking his fingers through his tousled mop of curls to de-tangle them before pulling a clean t-shirt over his head. Clad in fresh clothes and feeling the benefits, he descended the stairs, his steps slowing as he heard voices. Following the sound, he found Bodie and Magpie outside the open French doors, sitting comfortably at the pine patio table with mugs of tea, for all the world like old friends catching up on events. Magpie turned quickly to face him, relaxing as she recognised him. She had lost some of that hunted, waif-like look, he noticed. She flashed him a grin and turned back to Bodie, who was already aware of Doyle's appearance.

“ 'Bout time you showed up. We're wasting away here.”

Maggie stifled a giggle at Bodie's comment, issued in a lazy drawl. Doyle gave him a slant-eyed look.

“Cooking beneath you, is it?”

“Nah. My Mum always said, it's a poor man who can't look after himself.”

“Do you two always squabble like this?” Maggie interrupted a particularly pithy comment Doyle was about to make. The two operatives turned their attention to her. She laughed uncontrollably at the combined glares.

“This is not squabbling,” Bodie announced with careful dignity. “Into the kitchen, Cinders,” he intoned solemnly, pointing an imperious finger towards the kitchen.

Magpie's giggling increased. “No,” she gasped. “That makes us the Ugly Sisters!”

Doyle left them sparring, Bodie trying to persuade her he was more Prince Charming, and Magpie failing to be convinced. He tried not to be dragged into the argument about who was the Fairy Godmother.

By the time the meal was ready, a semblance of normality had once more descended. Magpie ate slowly and carefully, waiting for the moment when her stomach would turn traitor and she would need to vomit. When a few minutes had passed without incident, she began to wonder if perhaps she could actually relax and enjoy the meal. Distracted by the talk of the two agents – inconsequential office gossip and football mainly – it wasn't until her plate was cleared she realised she had actually managed to eat a meal without being sick. The relief she felt went beyond words.

Doyle was giving her a quizzical look and she wondered if she had missed him speaking to her.

“You want any more?” he repeated. Both men had been aware she had eaten properly, probably for the first time in days if not weeks, but had declined to comment. She weighed her options. On one hand, eating had become a novelty and she was loathe to stop now she appeared to have recovered the knack. On the other, she wasn't hungry and eating more may be pushing her luck.

“It's not a trick question,” Doyle added with a grin, guessing her train of thought.

She returned the smile, deciding not to tempt fate and pushing her empty plate towards him. “Well, you never can tell,” she said.

They stayed at the table until the cooling evening air made them close the French doors reluctantly. Then they sat watching the glow of the setting sun die on the river. The talk turned to serious issues, going through her career, checking any possible links to her present situation. It proved impossible, however. As Bodie had said, Magpie was methodical, cautious, and a consummate professional. It also revealed an isolated, lonely existence on the outskirts of humanity. Magpie had tried to fit in, had tried to live a normal life in between her cruel and unusual assignments. Attended evening classes, theatre, films – but all her friends had been kept at arms length, all relationships kept brief. She moved around a lot, always failing to keep in touch. No-one had ever been allowed in the sanctum sanctorum of her real self. And the saddest thing seemed to be that she had done this not to protect herself but to protect the people around her. The nearest thing to normality was her regular meetings with Cowley. Doyle and Bodie found it strange to think of their boss meeting up with her once or twice a month for lunch or dinner, as both schedules allowed. It showed a softer side to Cowley than they were familiar with.

There was an obvious reluctance in her to discuss anything private. Her professional life was no more open. She answered questions fully, hiding nothing, it seemed, except her feelings. And she refused to speak about Hong Kong. She didn't seem particularly proud of her achievements, relating the details in a clinical, logical tone. Slowly, though, she seemed to thaw, relating aspects of her career that avoided the bloodshed and murder. Periodically, Bodie or Doyle would check the perimeter, and it was obvious that Magpie herself was keeping a watchful eye out. Despite that, she seemed far more relaxed than she had been in the last twenty-four hours spent with them. It seemed she was fitting in around their routine, leaning their habits, and adjusted accordingly.

“M'beo,” Bodie said as Doyle returned to the room from one perimeter check. He caught a secretive smile flicker across her face.

“Tinpot African dictator, assassinated in his bed,” she said simply. “What about him?”

Bodie smiled a lazy predatory smile. “No-one ever admitted to the murder.”

“Cui bono,” Doyle said. “Standard legal question – 'who benefits?'”

“Well, the next tinpot dictator,” Bodie answered smoothly, falling into their routine.

“Only question is,” Doyle began.

“Who did it?” Bodie finished.

“No,” Doyle said. “ _How_ did they do it?”

Bodie nodded sagely. “True enough. Classic locked room mystery, that one.”

“Garotted in his sleep. With cheese-wire,” Doyle added solemnly. “Not pleasant.”

“Quick, though,” Bodie pointed out.

“Oh yeah.” Wide green eyes glinted behind the innocent expression. “Have to be. Surrounded by armed body guards 24 hours a day, premises searched from top to bottom before and after.”

“Sneaky.”

“Suspicious.”

“Ingenious.”

“So how did you do it?” Doyle finished at last. Magpie found herself trapped between two hard stares.

“Who said it was me?” she said with convincing innocence.

“Well, if not you, who was it?” Bodie asked.

She shrugged. “I've heard a few people claim it was them,” she said, in a voice lacking any conviction.

“C'mon, you've not felt the need to keep quiet about other hits you've done. You've admitted the ones you've done, and denied ones you haven't. Why are you avoiding the issue on this one?” Doyle's voice was laden with suspicion. His interrogation voice, Bodie recognised. The Good Cop one.

Her violet eyes narrowed in cautious appraisal of them both. “It would rather spoil the mystery,” she said reluctantly.

Bodie smiled. Score one to them. “So come on then. How did you do it?”

Magpie's carefully constructed veneer of secrecy crumbled under the comradely smile. She gave a shrug. “Oh, what does it matter?” she said finally, before turning another calculating look on them. “You do realise only Cowley knows the answer?”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a glance. “Why would he know?” Bodie demanded.

“Same reason as you - curiosity,” she replied. She gave a resigned sigh. “M'beo called his guards the Immortals – like Xerxes and Napoleon. If one fell, another one took his place. They followed him everywhere.”

She paused as though that was all the explanation required, until Bodie gave an exasperated sigh and prompted. “Well?”

She smiled at his eagerness. “Well – that's it really. They _followed_ ,” she explained carefully. “Anyone trying to hit M'beo had to go through the guard, and there was no getting through them short of a suicide mission wiping out everyone in sight. And that's never been my style. All I had do to was get there before he – and they – arrived, make a false wall in the bedroom behind the panelling, then just sit and wait 'til they arrived. Give them a few days, do the hit, then back in the hideout until they left a few days later.”

Stunned silence met her revelation.

“That's _all_?” Doyle finally exploded in disbelief. “All? You hide right under their noses for – how long?”

“Ten days,” she provided immediately. “They were looking for someone breaking in and getting out. They never thought to check for someone already there.”

Bodie whistled in appreciation, raising his mug in toast. “That was bloody risky.”

She gave a small smile. “Reflected in the price, I assure you.”

“Wouldn't it have been easier to use your womanly wiles?” Doyle asked with a grin.

She gave him a freezing look. “There's not enough money in the world for that,” she snarled, suddenly angry.

“Plus it's unsporting,” Bodie added with a grin that thawed her cold anger.

Doyle held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just wondered why you'd make life difficult for yourself,” he said amicably.

She regarded him carefully, a calculating look in the violet gaze. “I've never – never – seduced my way through a contract,” she said firmly. “Bet you wouldn't suggest that if I was a bloke.”

Doyle noticed the glint of amusement behind her anger and grinned. “Oh I dunno. Depends on the target.”

The chip-toothed smirk was infectious and Magpie's lips twitched in response. “Bastard,” she spat, although the imprecation lacked any venom and was completely spoiled by the broad smile she could no longer hide.

 

 

It was calm and peaceful so near the river. Not silent, but somehow an absence of noise. The sounds fit the surroundings rather than standing out from them. The darkness was absolute, wrapped around them like a blanket.

Against this, the sudden bark of gunshot and sound of glass shattering was so wildly out of place that Doyle and Bodie found themselves acting on pure instinct rather than trying to make conscious sense of it all.

Downstairs, Bodie turned his attention to outside, knowing the noises could be the precursor to an attack. Upstairs, Doyle threw himself into a rolling crouch, landing outside Magpie's door. Smoke started to curl under the door, but before he could open it, the door opened suddenly. A body barrelled into him, bearing him down to the floor at full stretch. He looked up into the hard eyes of Magpie, feeling the cold barrel of her Beretta hard under his chin even as his SIG bruised the soft flesh of her throat.

They recognised each other in the same heartbeat, withdrawing their weapons quickly. Magpie rolled off Doyle, his one hand gently guiding her despite the confusion. The bare skin of her hip was warm against his hand. She had scrambled into her jeans but had obviously not had time to fasten them, and her nightshirt was bunched up haphazardly around the unfastened jeans.

“What happened?” Doyle demanded.

“Smoke grenade,” she replied, her voice clipped and precise. He turned to give her a quick glance. This Magpie was all business, he noticed. All sharp edges and short answers.

“And the gunshot?”

“To break the glass so the grenade could get through.” She took advantage of his presence and the cover he provided to adjust her clothing, wriggling further into her jeans and pulling up the zip quickly.

“Doyle!” Bodie's roar from downstairs interrupted further questions.

“Clear!” he shouted back.

Bodie appeared briefly at the foot of the stairs, his navy eyes hard in a face like marble. “No sign of anything down here yet.”

Doyle descended halfway down the stairs. “What do you reckon?”

Bodie shrugged once, his gaze flitting around the house instead of focusing on Doyle. “Diversion, but whether to get us outside or the start of an attack, I don't know.”

“Right.” Doyle did not sound reassured.

“More likely to be scaremongering.” Magpie's voice carried from upstairs. “They just want us to panic.”

“Yeah? Well, they've got my attention,” Doyle called back with a wry grin.

A gunshot rang out again, followed closely by the sound of another smoke grenade, from the room used by Doyle. He took the stairs two at a time back to where Magpie sat, back against the wall between two of the four bedrooms. She glanced back to the room he had occupied, where thick white smoke now curled from around the door.

“I'll check the perimeter,” Bodie called up.

“Don't go outside,” she shouted back quickly. “They might decide to piss me off by shooting you.”

“Have to catch me first,” he replied, disappearing from view.

Magpie flashed a feral grin. “Sorry about this.”

Doyle smiled back at her. “All in a day's work.”

She pushed herself upright against the wall and brought the Beretta up to shoulder height. She met Doyle's wary gaze. “They're not going to shoot me. Not like this,” she said calmly. “After all these months of chasing me down, they've obviously got something special lined up for me.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Doyle didn't want to dwell on what they might have planned for her once they caught her. Her pessimistic assessment seemed all too plausible. And he remembered that Cowley had sent them more to back her up than to protect her.

“Take advantage of their unwillingness to kill me just yet,” she replied.

He noted the penetrating gleam in the violet eyes. She was certainly stronger than she had been a mere 24 hours earlier. But how much of that was pure adrenalin, he didn't know.

“I'm going into the bedroom and see what direction they're aiming from,” she said.

“They might shoot you by mistake.”

She grinned mischievously. “Optimist,” she said as she pushed open the door and rolled in the room. Doyle slid in behind her, taking the opposite wall to where she crouched. The room was in darkness. Smoke lingered in the air, but most had escaped through the broken window. He noticed the darker patch on the wall opposite the window, cracked plaster signifying where the bullet had ended after smashing through the glass. They had aimed high. Obviously, they had not intended to injure anyone inside. He followed the line of trajectory from the broken plaster, out through the shattered window and beyond. The incline appeared shallow. He visualised the outside of the house, leading down to the river. A narrow foot bridge crossed the river nearby, the foot of the bridge on the opposite bank being just visible from the rear of the property, he remembered.

“Footbridge,” he said, his voice sharp and curt. He saw her nod in the moonlight, having arrived at the same conclusion.

He scrambled to the side of the window offering the restricted view, and therefore clear of any sniper on the bridge. He heard Magpie hiss a warning as he quickly dodged around the edge of the window for a look.

“Don't prat around, Doyle,” she snarled as she came up beside him.

He flashed a grin in the darkness. “Wouldn't dream of it.” He ducked down again and moved back to the door. “I'm off to see how Bodie's doing.”

As he opened the door, allowing a chink of light to pierce the darkness, a rifle cracked again, the bullet splintering the top of the door. Again, too high for a killing shot, unless by some freak accident.

“Keep your fucking head down!” Magpie snapped as he slid through the doorway. Once outside, he extinguished the hallways dim side lights and made his way downstairs, SIG held ready, all senses alert. Downstairs was in darkness. Instinct for his partner's whereabouts and knowledge of the most logical place to await an anticipated attack brought him into the lounge, where a patch of darker darkness signalled the presence of Bodie, a glowering, silent and unmoving watcher. He slid noiselessly through the shadows to Bodie's side. Their old chemistry meant that Bodie was aware of his presence, so when he spoke, head close to Bodie's impassive face, Bodie did not show any surprise.

“What we got?”

Dark navy eyes glinted in the moonlight. “Minimum of two but more likely three shooters.”

“Sniper on the footbridge. Must be two of them. One to shoot and the other to fire the grenade straight after.”

Bodie nodded briefly. “There's the tow path at the bottom of the garden. No sign of any disturbance out front. Too residential anyway. Attack is most likely to come from the rear.” Bodie's voice was a soft purr in the darkness; calm, collected, but with danger in the tone, and a promise of savagery.

Another shot rang out in the night. No sound of breaking glass hinted at it being fired through one of the two broken windows.

“Seems like they've only got a clear line of fire to those far two rooms,” Bodie observed calmly.

“And it just so happens Maggie's in one of them,” Doyle remarked. “Covering fire or just trying to make us panic, do you think?”

The dark form shrugged. “Don't think they'd mind having a chance out in the open, but it seems they're definitely just interested in keeping us awake.”

“Shit.” Doyle leaned back against the wall beside Bodie. “So they just want us to sit here and stew.”

“Seems par for the course,” Bodie agreed amicably. “Or at least until PC Plod arrives to find out what's going on.”

“Nearest station is Maidenhead. Or Slough.”

“I won't hold my breath then.”

In fact, it was half an hour after the last shot rang out that Bodie cautiously opened the door to two police officers who had been sent to investigate the disturbance. That one of the officers was a pretty and petite brunette with soulful hazel eyes made Bodie more grateful for the local constabulary than he may otherwise have been.

Magpie sat halfway down the stairs, her rucksack again at her feet, watching the two agents deal with the police. She hid a smile as Bodie sweet-talked the telephone number out of the pretty police woman. Doyle rang through to HQ and waited until Cowley had been patched through before giving a brief report. The old man's comments were unheard, but she could guess the general gist. Doyle's expressive eyes and face conveyed enough information, a clipped “Yes, sir,” his main contribution to the conversation.

Bodie closed the door on the police as Doyle finished his telephone call. The three of them met by silent agreement at the foot of the stairs.

“You're a quick worker.” Magpie gestured with a grin at the slip of paper in Bodie's hand. “I'm heartbroken, by the way. Thought you only had eyes for me.”

“It's not his eyes you should worry about,” came the muttered response from his partner.

Bodie fixed Doyle with a tired look as he unsuccessfully tried to hide a snigger. Bodie turned back to Magpie, holding the slip of paper reverently between the index and middle fingers of one hand. “This? Rebound, darling. Thought I'd gallantly retire the field and leave you and Ray to live happily ever after.”

“Oh, that's harsh,” she said, feigning hurt. “What have I done to deserve that? All we do is argue.”

“Exactly. It's like you're already married.”

Doyle listened to the playful banter with a look of patient amusement. “When you've both finished organising my love life...” he began.

“Best offer you'll get,” Magpie muttered with pretended affront. Doyle flashed her a look, intending to continue the joke, but stopped when he caught a guarded look in the violet eyes. With a start, he realised she was trying to avoid having to deal with the situation. She was deliberately joking and laughing just to hide whatever it was she felt about the attack. He paused to rub his eyes reflexively. She had admitted last night that she was scared – last night that now seemed so long ago. She didn't want to face that fear, he realised. And he would have to force her.

He gave a sigh. “It's gone 3 am. It'll be daylight in less than two hours. We need to sort out what we're going to do.”

“What did Cowley say?” Bodie asked, his manner immediately serious once more.

Doyle grimaced. “Nothing complimentary, mate. He's not happy a safe house was targeted, especially as we only just got here.”

“We weren't followed.”

“I know that.” Doyle's voice rose to match the angry snap of Bodie. “But it's that or..” he broke off, suddenly unwilling to give voice to the alternative.

Bodie's lips compressed in anger, his thoughts already where Doyle's feared to tread. “If this is a fucking Susie,” he breathed.

“Can't be, mate. We've still got I Ds, haven't we.” He turned a keen gaze to Magpie. “You ever done jobs for the Spooks?”

The dark blue eyes were empty, giving nothing away. She shrugged. “MI6? Sure, a couple.”

“Willis?”

The name brought a fierce smile to her lips that failed to reach the violet eyes. “Yeah. Bastard never pays on time and always complains about the price. Typical civil servant.”

The navy blue eyes of his partner were cold. “You think it's him, do you?”

Doyle shrugged, then sighed heavily. “I dunno,” he admitted. “I just dunno, mate.”

“If it's MI6, it's an internal job.” Magpie was very calm for a woman with a sentence of death hanging over her. Or certainly a fate worse than death, considering the evidence. “They'd usually farm something like this out to a freelance. Keep their own doorstep clean than way.”

“Who did you kill for them?” There was the now familiar challenge in Doyle's hard voice.

She gave another cold, humourless smile. “Can't tell you. Client confidentiality, you know.” Her defiance wilted as Doyle bristled. “Look, I haven't done a job for the Spooks for over five years. It doesn't make sense for them to come hunting me now.”

“Unless they want to eliminate any connection between you and them for some job you did.”

She paused, considering Doyle's tight lipped suggestion, before giving a shrug. “Not their style,” she said at last. “They'd just kill me straight off.”

Doyle looked to Bodie, seeking his opinion. “Don't ask me to second guess MI6,” his partner rumbled.

“You're assuming, then, that MI6 have infiltrated CI5?” Magpie said.

“Cowley won't like that,” Bodie said with a predatory grin.

“No, but what else is there?” Doyle's voice was sharp with anger. “They didn't follow us, Bodie. That means they knew where we'd be.”

“We were both radioed and asked where the target was,” Bodie said gently.

Magpie watched the look shared between the two men. “That's great,” she sighed, turning back to the stairs. Bitterness tinged her voice. “Out of the bloody frying pan.” She bent to pick up her rucksack. “Cowley really is using me as a tethered goat, isn't he?” she said with dark anger. “Draw out the leaks. Bloody marvellous.”

“What's our next move?” Doyle asked, watching as she slowly mounted the stairs again.

“I don't care,” she snapped. “I've had enough.”

Doyle ran up the few steps to her, grabbing her arm and turning her towards him, ready to catch her as she swayed off balance.

“I thought you didn't give up,” he snarled.

She wrenched herself free from his grasp, steadying herself on the bannister.

“Doesn't matter where I go, they're there,” she snapped, her voice remarkably controlled considering the anger in her eyes. “So wherever you decide to take me next, I suggest it's somewhere easily defended.” She turned on her heel and took the remaining stairs two at a time. Doyle watched her retreat, hands on hips, his green eyes flashing angrily.

Bodie regarded him coolly. “Either kiss her or slap her,” he drawled. “But be prepared for a swift kick in the bollocks either way.”

“What?” Doyle snapped, face contorted with angry confusion.

Bodie shrugged. “It's simple, mate. You can't work out whether she's a good guy or a baddie. And women are always either heroes or villains to you. Fact is, she's more a shade of grey.” The navy eyes turned hard. “Just like we are.”

“I'm not in the mood for philosophy,” Doyle growled, climbing the stairs with a determined look.

“Suit yourself,” Bodie muttered. He grinned mischievously. “Wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when she gets her own back though,” he said, turning back for a final check downstairs.

Doyle hesitated at the door to the room Magpie had occupied. Away from Bodie's too perceptive gaze, the found himself thinking again on what his partner had said. Maybe he was wanting to put her clearly on the side of angels or demons. The fact was, it was hard to reconcile the woman Maggie with the professional killer Magpie. And then again, it could be all too easy, when he thought of her smooth fluid movements when fighting, or the harsh unyielding look in her eyes when she had held her Beretta to his head. Then there was the weariness that sometimes haunted her dark eyes. Behind her stubbornness, there was a strange fatalism, as though resigned to whatever happened, knowing she had somehow brought it on herself. That she deserved it.

He shook himself from the dark thoughts. No matter what Bodie thought, he wasn't looking to put her on some pedestal. He pushed open the bedroom door. Magpie sat on the floor, her back against the foot of the bed. The Beretta was in pieces in front of her, slide, stock and clip. She was slotting them together mechanically, the dulled metal dark, not reflecting any of the dawn tinged light. She looked up at him as she slid the last piece home, her dark eyes as blank as the gun in her hands.

“What are you, Doyle? The conscience of the entire world?”

He bristled at the sharp sarcasm in her voice, taking a step towards her and bending down to haul her up by her upper arms. She allowed the manhandling, but the tension in her body showed she was fighting the urge to retaliate.

“Don't you regret anything?” he snarled.

Her lip curled angrily. “No,” she snapped. “There wouldn't be any point, would there?”

He released her with a slight shake, as thought he couldn't bear to touch her any more. The foot of the bed caught the back of her knees, bringing her to a sudden sitting position on the edge of the bed. She watched, dark eyes sullen and angry, as Doyle ran his fingers through his hair, looking everywhere but at her.

“What do you want?” she asked at last, her anger defusing into something like curiosity. He turned to look at her, noticing the genuine enquiry in her voice.

“You want me to be riddled with guilt? Or the heartless assassin? I'm not sure which you'd prefer.”

“Don't put on an act for my benefit,” he snarled.

“You seem to expect one or the other,” she replied sharply. “What annoys me is that for some bizarre reason, I seem to care what you think.” Her lip curled in distaste, but her anger was for herself. She stood and approached him, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and a shrewd look on her face. “Cowley told me once, there's a difference between being cold hearted and being heartless.” Her voice was soft in the creeping grey light of dawn.

“And which are you?”

She shrugged. “I'm not prepared to pretend to be something I'm not just to make you like me,” she said. “I'm not riddled with guilt, Doyle, but I don't need someone to act as my conscience either.”

Green eyes regarded her cautiously. “Should I just be grateful for your honesty?” he asked, his voice hard. “Why did you retire?” he demanded suddenly.

She blinked, taken aback by the quick change in subject. “Why?” she repeated uselessly. She folded her arms in unconscious self-defence as he faced her, a look of belligerence in the agate eyes.

“Yes – why?”

He watched her as she hesitated, holding her wary look with a sharp eye.

“Made enough money, did you?” he snapped when she did not reply. “All that money make you happy, did it?” He saw the momentary flinch as his words hit home, before anger flooded her features.

She unleashed a hard back hand as her fury exploded. He barely caught the blow, acting on pure instinct as he blocked the follow up punch from her other arm. He grabbed her tightly, pinning her arms against her sides and making sure her legs were trapped by his own. He looked down into the pale, angry face, feeling her laboured breathing as she struggled against his wiry strength. She was strong, but he was stronger. There was no calm submission in her now. He felt her writhe sinuously against him, forcing him to keep adjusting his grip in order to maintain his hold on her. Determined not to release her, not wanting to be on the receiving end of her fury, but unwilling to hurt her in the process, he suddenly jerked her up into his arms and threw her back on the bed. Before she could react, he pinned her down, adding his weight to his strength advantage.

She glared up at him. “You really are an unmitigated bastard, aren't you?” she snarled in a low voice.

“Got a reaction didn't I?” He grinned down at her despite her anger.

“A reaction, is it?”

She hooked one leg around his waist, giving a sudden jerk, and he found himself flipped onto his back. He raised her hands above their heads, reducing her ability to pull against him.

“Sneaky,” he said with admiration. “Sure you didn't assassinate anyone with sex before?”

He closed his eyes and clung on desperately as she fought for freedom, grimly aware that he probably deserved a kicking for that comment. When her movements stilled, he opened one eye cautiously. They were both breathing heavily, her breath hot against his throat.

It was another stalemate, only this time she wasn't happy to acknowledge it. Taking advantage of her stillness, he flipped her over again, pinning her to the bed with her arms above her head. He looked down at her, suddenly aware that what had started out as attack and defence had the potential to become something else entirely.

“Truce?”

Her lips curled into a feral snarl. “You've got to be kidding.”

He laughed softly, their breath mingling in the brief gap between them. She struggled again, angry at his laughter, but his weight held her down and his strength was greater than hers.

“If I let you go, you're going to kick the shit out of me, aren't you?”

She stilled again, realised he wasn't mocking her. “I'll give it a bloody good try,” she replied, a slight smile now playing at the corner of her mouth.

He found his gaze fixed on her lips, unable to look away.

“Doyle?”

Her quiet voice broke the spell and he looked up into dark eyes glinting in the dawning light.

“Why does it matter so much?”

He blinked, confused by his sudden conflicting notions and her strange question. Slap her or kiss her, Bodie had said. Well, he thought, he'd established that slapping her wasn't an option.

“You don't make much sense,” he said at last. “You're not exactly a typical assassin.” His hands relaxed their grip on her, aware of a different tension filling his body as he lay pressed against her. She was an intriguing blend of soft and hard beneath him. “Sorry about the death by sex thing,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest and reverberating against her.

“So you bloody should be.” Her voice was sharp, but lacking any of the real belligerence she had shown before.

“Doyle!” Bodie's bellow rang upstairs. “Get a move on!”

He gave her an appraising look. “If I let you go, am I safe?”

She did not answer at first, regarding him with a cool gaze. “For the immediate time being,” she said at last. “But I'd say reprisals will form part of your future.”

He gave a lazy grin, a sensual, predatory look in his eyes. “I'll look forward to it.”

Before she could react, and without thinking, he quickly lowered his head and brushed her lips with his own in a kiss that was both demanding and gentle. Her surprise gave him time to scramble off her and put some distance between them. He stood watching her as she sat up, her hand raised to touch her mouth where their lips had met.

“Bastard, Doyle,” she whispered without ire. “You're a complete bastard.”

 

 

Bodie watched as dawn began its slow ascent over the horizon. He did not turn as Doyle entered the room.

“Well?” he asked, aware as ever of his partner's presence.

“She's a bit pissed off.”

Bodie turned to Doyle, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. “No! Really?”

Doyle shrugged, ignoring the heavy sarcasm in Bodie's tone. “Yeah, I know. Difficult to understand.”

Bodie's lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval. “Did you kiss her or slap her?”

Doyle stifled a grin, a guilty look in his green eyes. “A gentleman never tells,” he replied archly.

“A gentleman wouldn't. You, on the other hand....”

“ 'Ey.” Doyle raised a finger in admonishment. “Less of it, sunshine.”

He came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Bodie, looking out across the river. “Cowley's going to send in a clean-up squad, check out the bridge for signs of a shooter.”

“They've had time to clean up after themselves.”

“Yeah. Still, we could get lucky. They might have made a mistake.”

“Yeah.” Bodie's voice was a soft drawl. “Oh, look!” he said, suddenly pointing to the horizon.

Doyle jumped, keen eyes following the direction his partner indicated. “What?”

Bodie's face crumpled into a grin. “Flying pig,” he announced. Doyle gave him a filthy look. “Ah, come off it, Ray,” Bodie said, trying to placate his partner's ruffled feathers. “These guys are pros. They're not going to leave anything behind.

“They do seem to be calling all the shots,” Doyle agreed reluctantly. “Can't even trick them into a making a mistake.”

“Yeah, enough to drive anyone up the wall, never mind a control freak,”

Doyle's green eyes were wide. “Control freak?”

Bodie shrugged one shoulder. “Well, single person, left to her own devices, no-one to answer to...”

“Sounds like us.”

Bodie turned to Doyle with an affronted look. “You saying I'm a control freak?”

“Dunno. Let me see your sock drawer.” Doyle's wide, disarming grin washed over Bodie without effect. “On the plus side,” Doyle went on regardless. “We definitely know it wasn't in her imagination.”

“Yeah. I'll consider that little silver lining the next time the bullets start to fly.”

“When you two have quite finished.” Magpie's voice came from the doorway. Both men turned sharply to find her regarding them with a kind of resigned amusement. She leaned against the door, arms folded in front of her, her rucksack at her feet in its now customary position.

“Us? Waiting for you, love.” Bodie's lazy drawl matched her tone perfectly. He turned to Doyle, nodding his head in her direction. “Typical woman. Takes ages to get ready.”

Doyle's humour had faded. “We need to find somewhere, lay low, plan our attack.”

“Oh yeah?” Magpie's voice had a brittle quality to the sarcasm. “Because that had never occurred to me, had it.”

“She's got a point,” Bodie rallied to her defence, anticipating Doyle's temper to flare. He was surprised to find his action had been unnecessary. Doyle simply shrugged, conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he muttered. He thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, one hip canted as he pivoted one foot in thoughtful silence. “There's got be something to buy us some time. Something they won't anticipate.”

“Well, they obviously didn't like the stunt we pulled on them today,” Bodie said.

“Made their displeasure quite public,” Magpie agreed. “But we won't get away with the same trick twice.”

Doyle's teeth glinted white in a feral grin. “No, but we can leave them guessing.”

Bodie's navy blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Give them the run-around, you mean?”

Doyle nodded, his tongue running across his bottom lip before pulling it in and setting his teeth on top. “Yeah,” he said slowly, watching for any reaction from Magpie.

She pursed her lips, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. “I've tried something similar,” she said. “But there's only one of me. It's hard to give someone the run-around when you've got nothing to bluff with.”

“What are you thinking?” Bodie asked carefully.

“And is it safe to discuss it in here?” Magpie interrupted sharply.

They exchanged looks. “I'm only saying,” she continued. “Do we know for sure they haven't bugged the house?”

“I checked it when I got here,” Doyle replied quickly. “It's clean.”

“I checked myself as well,” Bodie agreed.

She shrugged. “Fair enough.” Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks; that she seemed satisfied to accept their assessment surprised them both.

“But the cars....” Bodie said slowly.

Doyle gave a loud sigh. “Shit. Parked outside my flat all night.”

“Always assuming they knew I was there,” Magpie allowed magnanimously. Bodie's silent question was met with a minute shake of Doyle's head.

“Oh I think we can take that as read.” Now was not the time to tell her his flat had been broken into soon after they had left it.

“Train station's just a five minute walk,” Doyle said thoughtfully.

“Public transport isn't exactly inconspicuous though,” Bodie said. “Not from a small place like this.”

“Then we take our chances with the cars, ditch them in the city and go on foot,” Magpie replied. The two men noticed she seemed strangely cheerful given the circumstances. Another of her drastic mood swings.

“And then?” Bodie had a playful glint in his eye.

“Then,” Doyle answered with a grin, “we see just how many hotels the three of us can book into.”

 

 

They stayed at the safe house for breakfast, reasoning that another few hours would not harm them, and may even confuse the enemy more. Perhaps lead them to believe another safe house was being prepared. It was approaching 10 am when they left, Magpie taking the back seat of the Capri this time. There was no sign of any watchers, but they had resigned themselves to being watched anyway.

Magpie had a considerable amount of cash in her ever-present rucksack. She handed out several thousand pounds to Bodie and Doyle without any sign of concern. Once they arrived in central London, they separated. Magpie sneaked into the front seat of the Capri, and at a convenient set of traffic lights, she quickly left the car and joined the pedestrians. Bodie continued through London before parking the car in a train station car park and taking to his feet. Across London, Doyle did the same.

Within three hours, Bodie and Doyle met up in the riverside pub in Hammersmith, overlooking the bridge and river. By that time, they had managed to book into six hotels each, under assumed names, and under their own. They had flashed their CI5 credentials once or twice to insist on privacy, but knowing it would indicate at least one possible hideout to any pursuers.

"Any sign of Maggie?" Doyle asked as Bodie took the head off his drink. He shook his head.

"Nothing. You?"

"Nah." Doyle's hand rested loosely around his own pint as his gaze slid over the location, customer and passer-by alike. Bodie's keen gaze checked out the view behind Doyle.

"I'm not happy leaving her to her own devices," Doyle admitted at last.

"She can look after herself."

"Yeah. And anyone else, I should imagine."

Bodie put down his pint. "She's not trigger happy, Ray. She's not going to shoot someone for looking at her funny."

Doyle's green eyes rested on him. "Sure of that, are you?"

"As sure as I can be." He took a long pull from his pint.

"Mad Tommy could look calm."

Bodie swallowed, nodding to concede the point. "He could. But he never actually quite pulled it off though, did he?"

Doyle considered this for a moment, finally taking a long drink from his pint. "Nah, I suppose not," he agreed reluctantly. "But she's not exactly calmness itself either."

"She's tired and scared," Bodie said quietly. Doyle looked at him sharply, wondering when his cool, collected partner had noticed the fear in those violet eyes. "She is human."

"And we're supposed to be protecting her," Doyle snapped. "Not exactly easy when she's running around London on her own."

Bodie gave a grin calculated to exasperate his fiery tempered partner. "He did say it wasn't a typical babysitting job."

"No. Not with all that cash she's carrying."

"That's what's worrying you, then."

Doyle shook his head, finally showing his irritation with his partner's flippancy. "Don't be daft," he snapped. He took another drink, taking the time to get his temper back under control. "Didn't seem to bother her, giving us that money."

"I don't think she's short of a few quid," Bodie replied carefully, wondering what Doyle was thinking beneath that dark brown mop.

"Probably not," he agreed in a deceptively calm voice.

"Always very expensive, was Magpie," Bodie said. His conversational tone belied the close watch he was keeping on his partner. "You get what you pay for, after all."

"Why killing people though?" Doyle said at last, his voice soft but heavy with confusion. "It just seems so..." He shook his head unable to find the word.

Bodie took pity on the bemused man. "Some people kill for revenge, Ray. That's how she started. Maybe she didn't want them to be so important that they were the only people she killed." He drained his pint. "Everyone remembers their first," he said, his soft voice at odds with the hard eyes. "Maybe she wanted to forget them."

He grinned suddenly at Doyle's fallen angel face scrunched up in thought. "Don't think about it so much. Just ask her. Only try not to make it sound so much like you're the Inquisition."

"No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition," Doyle said, a grin spreading across his face, lighting his expression.

"Our chief weapon is fear. Fear and surprise," Bodie continued, standing up to leave. Doyle joined him, shoulder to shoulder.

"Our two – two chief weapons...." he added as they left the pub.

 

 

It was nearly half past four when Doyle finally found it necessary to break radio silence.

"3-7, come in."

Bodie was just leaving another hotel, the wad of cash in his pocket now considerably lighter.

"What is it, Doyle?"

"Think I've got a new friend."

Bodie frowned. "What have I told you about playing with strangers?"

"He looks very well dressed. And he's very good, Bodie." Even across the radio, Bodie could hear the reluctant note of praise.

"You sure he's not the decoy?"

"Nope," Doyle replied. "But it's all looking a bit official."

Fucking spooks. Bodie grimaced. "Right. Well, if you need help losing him, let me know."

"Will do. But I think I'm a big boy now, Mum, so I'll be okay."

Bodie grinned at the heavy sarcasm in Doyle's voice. "Make sure you're home for tea and keep your legs crossed."

"Piss off, Bodie." The laughter in Doyle's voice took the venom from the words.

Bodie glanced at his watch – nearly twenty past four. Almost time for the rendezvous with Magpie.

He wound his way through the crowded pavements. Crowds might make it easier to lose a tail, but it also made them harder to spot. He wondered again whether the tail Doyle had spotted was the one he was meant to see – the one disguising the real tail.

They had arranged to meet in a bookshop, a huge, rambling building with several exits from different levels and to different streets. Good location, he had to admit. Doubling back on himself and negotiating a labyrinthine route ensured he was not being followed, and he found himself browsing the second floor of the book shop, idly scanning the travel section.

"Need someone to explain the big words?" The gentle voice came from behind him. He turned and found Magpie smiling at him, her violet eyes sparkling with wicked amusement.

"I stick to looking at the pictures," he replied with a grin.

"Best thing," she agreed. "Although there's a pop-up Karma Sutra over there that's quite entertaining."

"Been there, done that, ripped up the t-shirt and used it for restraints."

"Somehow I guessed you'd say that."

"How did you get on?" he asked.

She gave a shrug. "Not bad. Managed about ten hotels, B and Bs."

"Same here." He returned the book on Egypt to the shelf. "Any uninvited guests?"

"No. But I did manage to tail you for a while."

Along Oxford Street, Bodie remembered. When he had felt the usual pricking across the back of his neck. "That was you, was it?"

"Yeah. Could see you getting a bit spooked, so I moved off."

"Spot anyone else?"

She shook her head. "No. You were all alone when I left you."

"Doyle's got himself a tail," he revealed, moving around to the another set of shelves. Philosophy, he noticed idly, his attention fixed more on his surroundings.

"Oh yes?" Her curiosity was piqued.

"Apparently. Might be some time before he shakes them."

"What fun." Her tone implied it was anything but. He smiled.

"He'll be fine," he reassured her.

"Hope so." He caught her grim look. "I'm still not happy at the risks you two are taking," she admitted.

He shrugged. "It's the job, isn't it?" he said casually. "Besides, there's more to it than protecting you, isn't there?"

She nodded and he noticed there was no disappointment or anger in her attitude.

"Resigned to being the tethered goat now?" he asked gently, navy blue eyes watching her carefully.

She smiled at him. "Makes me feel a bit more useful," she admitted. "Rather tethered goat than albatross around your necks."

Bodie heard the muffled beep of his radio and cast a sharp glance around them. Philosophy appeared strangely unpopular, it seemed, so he risked answering the call. The tight line of his lips revealed his well-controlled anger.

"3-7. What the hell is it?"

"Control to 3-7. State whereabouts."

"Not on your damn life," he hissed.

"Alpha One is insisting. Wants confirmation the target is safe and you are still together."

What the hell was going on? Bodie exchanged a look with Magpie, who watched with obvious suspicion.

"Target gone underground. We've separated." Bodie's fury was far less controlled now, his jaw clenching and unclenching reflexively, his shoulders tight with tension.

A frown flashed across Magpie's face and she quirked her head to one side in unspoken question. He closed his eyes and gave a brief shake of his head.

"It's okay," he said to her, although he could see she was not reassured. The radio was silent for a few seconds, giving the impression the operator was receiving instructions. Bodie did not like the way this was turning out.

"Alpha One instructs either you or Doyle to return to base for further briefing," the radio whispered at last. "Other operative to remain with target and continue undercover."

Bodie hesitated. Splitting them up, but no further insistence on bringing the target into danger. It could be genuine, or it could be to smoke them out. He regarded Magpie carefully, seeing the same considerations in her face.

"It could be a trap," she whispered.

He nodded. "But if we want to draw them out, it has to be sprung."

"I don't like it, Bodie," she insisted, a sharp note in her voice.

He gave her a rueful smile. "Neither do I, love, but it's sounding like you're not the only tethered goat."

He opened the radio channel before she could reply, holding his finger to her lips to force her silence.

"Roger. Tell Alpha One I'll contact 4-5 and make my way in in the next couple of hours. 3-7 out." He switched off the radio before any dispute could be raised by the controller.

"This is divide and conquer," she hissed. "And there's someone in CI5 who's in on it."

"So why aren't you running?" he snapped back. She regarded him open-mouthed. "Well? Backed into a corner again, why aren't you running?"

She closed her mouth with an audible snap and glared at him. "Run where? Look – Cowley calls me in because he's told there's a contract on me. Who told him that? And no sooner do I turn up than I find I'm right where they seem to want me. Coincidence?" She did not allow him time to reply. "But that means there's a leak in CI5, and while I am a killer, and I am a murderer, and there are hundreds of other crimes I've committed over the years, I am not a fucking traitor." She paused, breathing heavily in her fury, although she had not raised her voice above a whisper. "So if there's a leak in CI5, and if it's currently focused on me, then I'm going to do all I can to find it out. Because at least then all this shit means something."

Bodie shook his head ruefully. "You're as big a martyr as Doyle," he said, his tone making it clear he did not consider that to be good thing.

She snorted. "I'm not a bloody martyr, Bodie," she said with a sigh. "I just can't bring myself to drop everything and leave Cowley to pick up the pieces. If I'm flushing out a leak, at least I'm doing something useful."

He nodded briefly. "Yeah. I suppose retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be."

She gave a genuine smile. "You kidding? Big house up in the Lake District, money to do whatever I like, and no-one to please but myself?"

No friends, no lovers, lying to everyone you meet. The truth was hidden behind the violet eyes that didn't quite match the smile. Bodie grinned, prepared to continue the charade. "Who says crime doesn't pay?"

"And the hours are good," she said.

He flicked the R/T back on. "3-7 to 4-5." He turned his attention back to Magpie as they waited for Doyle to respond. "Something's happening," he said. "They must be getting desperate."

"They're risking their insiders," she agreed. "And this escalation in activity suggests they're getting a bit panicked."

He grinned. "Make you feel good, does it? Having them on the run for a change?"

"4-5. What now?"

Bodie rolled his eyes. "That's Doyle, pleasant as ever," he muttered. "I've got called into base. You continue as planned."

"Called in? What for?"

"Shan't know 'til I get there, shall I, sunshine?" Bodie drawled. "How's your shadow?"

"Subtle," Doyle replied. "Using an R/T in public isn't exactly inconspicuous either."

"It's his sunny tempered disposition that makes him such a joy to work with," Bodie muttered to Magpie before thumbing the radio back on. She stifled her giggle. "Right. I'll contact you later. 3-7 out." He switched the radio off before returning it to his inside pocket. "I'll exit south and make my way back to base. You make sure the road's clear and rendezvous with Doyle later, yeah?"

She nodded impatiently. "You just watch what you're doing," she snapped.

He flashed a boyish grin. "Aww. And I thought you didn't care."

"About you?" She shrugged, affecting a smile, trying to hide the worry growing inside. "Love of my life, aren't you?" she said flippantly.

Bodie affected shock. It was easy to play off her, he knew. Verbal sparring to hide real concern, and silly words of mock love where friendly affection had begun. It was like playing with a kid sister. Flirting without danger.

"Don't tell Ray," he whispered. "He'd be heartbroken."

"Want you all to himself, does he?"

"Well, can you blame him?"

She laughed, a much more natural smile on her face. "Go on with you," she said. "Before I shoot you myself."

 

 

Bodie felt the watchful gaze of his tail about a quarter of a mile before he returned to his Capri. The prickling, tickling sensation stayed with him as he drove back toward HQ, traffic now built up sufficiently to make his progress slow and stilted. He tried looking around as he sat in the traffic, but the tail was good, and at this time of day, so many cars were heading in the same direction, it was more a matter of guess work. Still, there was a dark blue Rover about six cars behind him that he thought seemed to be taking an undue interest in him.

He was barely three minutes from HQ when his radio bleeped. He had a growing suspicion as to what was going to happen next.

"Control to 3.-7."

"3-7." He answered nonchalantly, no sign of concern or mistrust in his voice

"Debrief aborted. Alpha One will contact you tomorrow. Return immediately to assignment."

Bodie hid his annoyance. "What kind of idiot do you take me for?" he muttered under his breath. "Roger. 3-7 out." He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. So now they expected him to lead them straight back to Magpie, did they?

He drove smoothly, belying the speed and nature of his thoughts. Who would so underestimate both him and Doyle as to think they wouldn't notice the bizarre instructions? Who was so unaware of CI5 procedures? Was it a leak in CI5? Was someone working against them on the inside? The idea was distasteful, but it had happened before. And Bodie was not a naive innocent to be thinking it couldn't happen again, despite Cowley's careful vetting.

Or was it something even more devious? Had someone managed to interfere with the car radio and R/T so that the calls they received did not even originate with CI5?

Whichever convoluted plan Bodie considered, the most likely suspect always came back to MI6. Damn bastard spooks.

He changed gears viciously. Bloody Willis.

 

 

Doyle nursed his vodka and orange as he viewed the shifting crowd of after-work drinkers. It was Friday evening, he realised, as people congregated, drank, chatted and separated around him. Even so, he noticed the slight figure of Magpie as she entered, her arrival masked by several chatty girls, all arriving to celebrate the start of the weekend. Their eyes met, but no recognition flickered. Instead, she seemed to head out to the back of the building, weaving in and out of groups. He watched surreptitiously as she approached the bar, noticing her gaze flicking to the mirror behind the bar, making use of it to check her surroundings. He waited as she went through all these manoeuvres, admiring the natural way she did it, blending into groups and shadows, before finally approaching the corner snug Doyle had appropriated before the after-work rush arrived.

Doyle raised his glass in greeting as she slid into the seat opposite him. "Nice outfit," he said.

She seemed confused for a split second before remembering. "Oh. Well, I've become ultra-cautious." Magpie had changed from her jeans and vest top into a smart charcoal grey suit with fitted jacket and short skirt. Black patent stilettos completed the look of a city secretary now finished with work for the week. A black handbag hung from her grasp, and the ruck sack had gone, replaced with a leather bag that could contain anything from gym clothes to work to take home. She wore her hair in a bun, with dark sunglasses perched on top of her head, and had even found time to apply some make-up. She blended with the crowd of working executives and PAs perfectly.

"Hiding in plain sight," Doyle said, giving her a slow appraising look. Her gaze shifted, looking slightly embarrassed, and she self-consciously crossed her legs. The movement left more of her smooth thighs open to Doyle's frank assessment.

"As I said, I'm being ultra cautious," she said, her voice dragging Doyle's attention back from her legs. He had started to wonder what those smooth muscles would feel like clamped around his ribs, and the image had him reaching for his drink to parch his sudden thirst.

"Have you heard from Bodie?" The reminder gave him something else to replace the sensual images playing in his imagination.

He shook his head. "No. Nothing from Cowley either."

She fidgeted with her drink, running her fingers up and down the glass in a way that did nothing to completely dispel Doyle's rising awareness of her. "Maybe we should call in?"

He forced his gaze away from the idly trailing fingers. "Cowley pays us to use our initiative," he said. "Calling in just makes him angry."

"Unless something goes wrong with your initiative?"

He pursed his lips and nodded in acknowledgement. "Yeah. Then he just gets angry anyway."

She smiled. "Between a rock and a hard place then."

His attention faltered, his gaze sliding down her body before he turned it into a look into his drink. Hard places were not what he needed to think about right now.

"This calling him in – that's not normal procedure, is it?" she continued. The look she gave him was shrewd and quickly called his libido to order.

"No," he agreed. "If Cowley wants us, Cowley shouts." He smiled wryly. "Or at least raises his voice."

She tapped irritably on the side of her glass with her fingernail. "I wish Bodie hadn't gone," she said, almost talking to herself.

Doyle wanted to say something flippant to lift her worried state, but found he couldn't. He raised his drink to his lips. "Me too, love," he said. He watched as she chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the table top. "Look," he said, placing his empty glass down on the table, "we need to carry on. Bodie can look after himself. Devil looks after his own."

The look she shot him was unconvinced. "Yeah, and don't tell me you're not just, if not more, worried than me right now."

He met her gaze and shrugged. "It's true. I worry about the lummox. But there's not much I can do about it now."

She considered him carefully. He could feel the weight of her judgement in the violet blue eyes. "What's the next move then?"

"We get out of here. Find one of the bolt-holes we've set up today, and plan our next move."

His calm determination seemed to take some of the tension from her. "Where do you suggest?"

"Well, we can rule out the ten or so Bodie got," he said with a rueful look. His gaze softened as he caught her concerned look. "You're really worried about him, aren't you?"

She frowned angrily, about to snap a response before catching herself. "Of course I'm worried," she hissed, anxious to avoid any attention. "What kind of bitch do you think I am? No – wait," she held up her hand as though to stop him, a smile that had no humour in it curling her lips. "Probably best not answer that, had you? You make it quite clear what you think of me."

"Given me any reasons to think otherwise?" he challenged. His voice was calm, but there was a flash of anger in the green eyes.

She hesitated, and he saw the sadness fill her eyes before she regained her composure, flashing a wan smile. "Evidently not." She drained her glass quickly, settling it on the table beside his with a calmness that belied the subtle shake in her hands. The violet eyes met his gaze with a warmer smile. "This is not the place for this discussion," she said, control restored once more.

"No," he agreed. "What locations you got?"

Setting aside the argument for the privacy of the hotel room, they bent their heads to the task of picking a suitable location from the two dozen they had remaining.

 

 

Bodie parked by the side of the marina, calmly locking the car doors behind him and walking along the tow path. He knew his tail was still around, had almost given up trying to spot him, and instead decided to play along to buy valuable time for Magpie and Doyle. In the back of his mind was the realisation he could be playing a dangerous game. He'd recognised the look in Maggie's eyes as she'd told him not to go; as much a predator as he was himself, she would know the calm stoicism masked a spark of fear. Fear kept you alive, he knew. Made you sharp, if you controlled it, used it.

Let them think he was leading them to Doyle and Magpie. They might get bored and carry on searching London for them. After all, they hadn't exactly found it difficult to trace them already. All he was doing was delaying them awhile.

It was surprising how quiet it could be so close to so many people. The river was still, only ducks playing in the shaded waters, bottoms up to the evening sun as they threw water over themselves, shaking themselves dry as they bobbed back to the surface. A swan sailed by majestically, cygnets trailing in the wake like tugboats attending a flagship. The water cooled the summer breeze that played through his hair, sighing through the short sable locks like the breath of a lover.

His tail was subtle. Maybe by now there was more than one. It would make sense. And the whole thing stank of Spooks.

Bodie stifled a smile as he sat and watched the swans swim by.

 

 

In the end, they chose one of the more upmarket hotels available. Hiding in one of the cheaper options seemed the most obvious, as were the more middle-of-the road establishments. In the end, it seemed continuing in the tradition of hiding in plain sight appeared the best choice. Besides, as Magpie argued, if they were going to be run to ground, they may as well do it in style.

It was also one of the suites booked for a couple. There had been various options throughout the day – doubles, suites, singles. They had deliberately varied the bookings to cover any eventuality, even the idea of them all staying separately, although Doyle had privately decided that that option would not be followed. It was also conveniently located within about another half a dozen of other hotels, should they wish to move or create further confusion.

They went to the room with minimum fuss, collecting the key at the desk as though they had been staying there a week. This was a hotel Doyle had arranged, and he noted the reception staff had changed shifts since his first appearance there earlier in the day. They entered the suite, Doyle casually tipping the porter and dismissing him with a brief word of thanks. They had no luggage to carry, after all.

They surveyed the suite of rooms – a lounge area leading to a bedroom to the left, with an impressive bathroom en suite. The bedroom windows allowed for views to the west, the lounge had almost an entire wall of glass giving a look out over the north of the city. Magpie wandered from room to room, Doyle conducting his own survey. It wasn't the cleanliness of the facilities or the pleasantness of the view that concerned them – only the practicalities and opportunities the room provided.

Magpie emptied out her new bag onto the bed, adding the contents of her handbag to the pile. Doyle watched as she sifted through the items, noticing she had been making other purchases in between their hotel searches. She held up a faded moss green shirt, eyeing it and him speculatively, before holding it out for his attention. He raised an eyebrow in unspoken question as he took the shirt from her. The silk was soft to the touch, the colour enhanced by the lustrous pearlescence of the fabric. The tags proclaimed it to be new, and expensive.

“I thought you'd appreciate a change of clothes as well,” she said, turning back to her pile of purchases. Looking over it, Doyle noticed a dark blue shirt, as well as trousers and jeans that did not appear cut to fit her figure. He reached out for a pair of faded blue jeans.

“These'll fit,” he said curtly, not bothering to question how she had managed to guess their sizes so well.

She threw socks and pants at him without a word, before removing her jacket and laying it on the back of a nearby chair. She wore only a cream camisole top beneath the jacket, the satin sheen lying softly against the swell of her breasts. She continued eyeing her acquisitions, unaware of Doyle's gaze as she sorted items into small piles. She turned suddenly, holding a small collection of men's clothing in front of her, and gave a small sigh of surprise as she saw him. She had obviously forgotten he was there. He wondered how long it had been since she had felt so comfortable with someone as to allow herself such a lapse.

She recovered herself quickly, and held out the pile in her arms. The blue shirt and grey slacks, obviously intended for Bodie. He took them from her without comment, laying them on the cabinet near the door.

“Are you always this organised?” he asked.

“Shops are a good place to lose people, or check if you're being followed,” she replied smoothly, ignoring any sarcastic comeback or retort. She moved past him to pick up the menu from the cabinet where he'd laid the clothing, studiously avoiding looking at him, he noticed. He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. She was waiting for the argument, he knew.

He eyed her carefully, taking full advantage of her refusal to acknowledge him to give full view to the picture she presented. High heeled black patent shoes made her legs even longer, aided by the short skirt that sat just north of halfway between hip and knee. Short enough to tempt, long enough to taunt. And the camisole, leaving arms and neck invitingly uncovered. He wanted to reach out and undo the tight bun of hair, watch the sable tresses fall over that pale skin, feel the soft silk of hair and the velvet warmth of her skin.

It was impossible she was unaware of the picture she presented. He raised his eyes, suddenly angry with her for this teasing, and saw her face in profile as she considered the menu. The anger disappeared. She was unaware, he saw. She was simply herself. There was no artifice.

As though sensing his thoughts, she turned her gaze to meet his, violet eyes large in a pale face.

“You look tired,” he said at last.

“Hungry,” she amended, holding out the menu for him to look at. “Room service?”

“Unless you've got something in your magic bag that allows us to dress for dinner,” he said with a grin, watching her smile instinctively answering his own.

“Well, they may insist on a tie,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. “And somehow I couldn't see you wearing one.”

He gave a short laugh. “No, not unless absolutely necessary,” he agreed. The tension had ebbed from them both with the meaningless banter. He handed the menu back to her. “Order whatever you want, and make it for two. I'm going to contact Bodie.”

He waited for her to question the wisdom of his intention, and was surprised when she shrugged and nodded. “Okay. I'm going to have a bath.”

He frowned, wondering where this sudden trust and acquiescence had come from. And whether it was deserved. “You sure you're okay?” He raised his eyebrows as she turned a questioning look on him. “You're being a bit.... accommodating.”

One eyebrow raised in reply. “ 'Accommodating' ?” she echoed. “Is that you being uncharacteristically subtle and saying I'm behaving myself?”

“ 'Docile' isn't a word I associate with you,” he said honestly, wondering whether this was how the argument would start. Instead, she folded her arms and gave him a shrewd look.

“You think I should argue when you make a perfectly reasonable judgement call?”

“No. I just don't expect you to trust my judgement.”

Her closed expression melted into a smile. “You just don't expect me to trust you,” she said. She shrugged, returning her attention to the menu. “Well, no-one's more surprised that me, mate. Trust me.”

“Trust you?”

She looked up sharply then noticed the laughter in his eyes. She smiled again. “Well. As much as you can,” she said ruefully. He hesitated, noticing the calculating look on her face. “There's something about you, Doyle,” she said quietly. “You're easy to talk to. Too easy. It's disturbing.”

“You didn't have much trouble talking to Bodie either,” he said, trying to break the strange mood.

“Bodie's different. After all, you both started out knowing more about me than anyone else ever has before.”

“Maybe that's it, then. Maybe you can just be yourself with us.”

She gave a short laugh, but there was no humour in it. Instead her gaze appeared to turn inward, focused on something dark. “Be myself?” she said, her voice soft, barely a whisper. “Well, first of all, I'd have to know who I am, wouldn't I?” She gave another humourless laugh. “Wouldn't that be a novelty.”

She shook herself, as though the words had not been intentionally voiced, and forced her attention back to him. “You go and check on Bodie, I'll have a bath. I'll order food when you get back.”

Allowing her the retreat, he nodded, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. Dunno when he'll get back to his place after HQ. I'll use a couple of the nearby hotels. Ring 'round from there.” He fixed her with an astute gaze. “You be okay?”

She gave a forced smile and he pretended to believe it. “Yeah. Go on. Bugger off and leave me in peace.”

He grinned and left the apartment. Maggie shuffled to the edge of the huge bed and collapsed on top of it, arms and legs spread wide. After a second, she brought her hands to cover her face. “Oh God, what the hell am I doing?” she asked the empty room.

 

 

Bodie glanced at his watch as he entered his apartment. Nearly half past eight. He'd been driving around, trying to draw out his tail, for two hours. He had to admit, Doyle was right – they were good. Too good. Even so, there had been times he'd thought he'd managed to lose them and had had to double back on himself to allow the blue Rover to spot him again. He tried to make it look inconspicuous. He had no way of knowing whether he had succeeded.

No longer trusting the radio or R/T, he doubted he could trust his own home telephone. Nevertheless, he needed to report to Cowley. This situation could easily get out of hand, and then there was no way of knowing how much the Old Man would explode.

He fixed himself a drink, casually dropping his keys on the table next to the whisky, before throwing himself in the leather armchair and reaching for the telephone. His hand had barely touched the surface when it started ringing.

He answered it cautiously. “Bodie.”

“You're home then?” Doyle's caustic tones could only mean his partner had been trying to contact him for a while and had been worried. Doyle always used anger to hide anything else he may be feeling. Not, Bodie knew, that the temperamental man needed much of an excuse to get angry.

“Missed me?” he replied, falling back on his own diversionary tactic.

“Like a hole in the head. What did the Old Man want?”

“Ah, therein lies a tale, Goldilocks.”

“Well?”

Bodie wondered at the amount of tension in Doyle's voice. He dropped his flippant attitude immediately. “You okay, sunshine? You sound wound tighter than a Scotsman's purse.”

A sigh gusted down the telephone, and Bodie knew the anger Doyle was faking went with it. “Yeah. Fine. Met up with Maggie, no problems. We've just been worried about you, mate.”

The 'we' raised a smile and a slight flush of embarrassment. “You been trying long?”

“Sixth attempt. I was all ready to ring Cowley next.”

“That's what I just came back to do,” he replied.

“So you didn't see him at HQ?”

“Never got there. Whole thing got called off with me less than 200 yards from parking.”

There was a pause, and Bodie could hear the suspicion going up a notch in Doyle. “Better make sure it was Control who called you in,” he said at last.

“My thoughts exactly. Look, I can't swear this line is safe, mate, so best ring off. Contact me again tomorrow, 9am.”

“Where? There? Or HQ?”

“Either / Or. Whichever gets an answer.”

“All right. Watch yourself.”

“And you. If you can take your eyes off her, of course.” He couldn't resist a final teasing comment.

“Oh, if you could see what I've seen.” Bodie could imagine the lecherous look his partner would be putting on at that moment.

“Explains why your hair's so curly,” he replied. “Watch your back, Ray,” he added, his tone more serious.

“Always, mate. Always.”

Doyle rung off, leaving Bodie holding the receiver. He gave a sigh before clearing the line, and started to dial the familiar number. He got two digits into it before an unwelcome sensation washed over him.

Without stopping to check, he threw himself out of the chair, drawing his Browning as he hit the floor. He sighted down the barrel to the tall, dark suited man standing less than three feet away. Although he was unarmed, the two people on either side of him were not. The woman held a Colt in a firm grip, while the shorter, blond haired man held a Browning. None of them looked unfamiliar with handling weapons. Neither did they look like they would hesitate to use them.

The unarmed man smiled coldly, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. “Reckon you're outnumbered, Bodie,” he said softly. He watched as Bodie reluctantly got to his feet, gun hanging from his finger as he raised his hands to head height. The woman, tall, leggy and blonde, retrieved his weapon from his lax fingers and handed it to the other man, who pocketed it without comment. A quick gesture brought the blond man to Bodie's side, pushing him towards the chair opposite where the telephone lay. As he was forced to sit down, the other man – obviously in charge – sat on the leather chair, lounging back with casual elegance.

Bodie's eyes flitted from armed man to armed woman. They looked similar, he realised. Maybe even brother and sister. The man in the chair, however, was darker, cold blue eyes set in a pale face.

“Now, I could insult you by asking you where Magpie is, but I don't think I'll bother.” The cold smile reminded Bodie of a shark. “We'll find her. And if we don't, well.” He broke off as the blond woman moved behind Bodie. “They'll bring her to us.”

Before Bodie could spit back a comment, the woman brought the gun crashing down on the back of his skull, and all he saw was spinning, sickening blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

Doyle entered the hotel with a casual stride that belied his careful scrutiny of everyone around. He had called Bodie from one of the nearby alternative hotels, changing to another hotel when he could not make contact straightaway. He made his way to the suite, confident that he had not been spotted, and not a little relieved. He glanced at his watch – quarter to nine. No wonder he was starving.

He entered the suite and immediately noticed the silence and growing darkness. Moving quietly, he made his way to the bedroom, expecting to hear the sounds of Magpie in the huge double shower or magnificent bath. Instead, he found her sprawled across the massive bed, damp hair lying across a pillow in a silken black wave, drying in the dying light of sunset that filtered softly through the windows. She had wrapped herself in a white towel, although it did not seem that securely held now she was asleep. He could not stop the slight smile at the sight she presented, and leaned against the doorway, waiting for her to snap into wakefulness.

When she did not, he moved closer, curious that she should be fast asleep now and yet so easy to rouse that night in his apartment. But they had only just met then. Now, although only some 48 hours later, it felt longer in terms of experience.

He made it to the side of the bed before he saw the light glinting off slitted eyes as she regarded him sleepily. She was barely awake, he realised. He smiled and reached out without thinking to brush the back of his fingers against her face.

“Shhh,” he soothed gently. “Go back to sleep.”

She smiled sleepily, her eyes already closing, but he felt her move closer to his touch. He withdrew his hand as she fell back to sleep and watched her for a few more seconds before moving away quietly and heading for the bathroom, shedding his clothes along the way.

She surfaced slowly from sleep a couple of minutes later, a nagging feeling of something amiss nudging her awake. She heard the shower running, the unmistakable noises of someone splashing around, and realised the dream figure had been reality. Doyle had returned, and she had barely stirred.

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. He had been gone for about an hour, during which time she had done more than just shower and fall asleep. The activity of the last few weeks had left her with little opportunity to think about things. She had only managed enough thought processes to react, forced into one defensive strategy after another. Since Bodie and Doyle had arrived on the scene, however, she found she was starting to actually process what was happening around her. The time spent alone in the shower and before she fell asleep had allowed her some time to consider.

And she knew, without any doubt, that she would never – had never – simply slept through when someone had walked in on her asleep. It was one reason she was so bad at relationships. Although some guys appreciated being left alone at night, after a while, some started to question her reluctance to let them spend the night, or for her to stay with them. The few times she had shared a bed had not worked out comfortably for her or her partner. Either she lay awake the whole night, or they suffered her restless sleep and violent reactions to being suddenly woken.

Somehow, Doyle had crept under the self-preservation radar with which she surrounded herself. And she had no idea how or why she had allowed it to happen. There had always been a cold, dead centre to her heart; locked away long ago in Hong Kong, when she’d realised no-one would ever see through the scars or the nightmare of her life to the real her – no-one would ever want to see that. She’d only ever given her heart away once – she would never make that mistake again.

And yet… Doyle managed to move something. Maybe he wasn’t the all-consuming love she had felt before – for him she would still not name, not even in the privacy of her mind. But he was something else. Someone prepared to see past the scars, to treat her as a real person for perhaps the first time since she had died.

As dispassionately as possible, she made a mental review of his appearance and behaviour. He could swing from concern to distaste in seconds; she remembered his reaction to her stomach cramps, and his watchful gaze when she was eating. The way he had been the first to notice the signs of tiredness and fear she was hiding even from herself. Then there was the cold look when she had talked about her ex-fiancé; the callous disdain in his 'Did you even love him?'. The flashes of disgust when her former profession was discussed.

The warm press of his lips when he lay on top of her on the bed in the early hours of that morning.

She knew about Bodie and Doyle; she knew about several CI5 agents and affairs. Cowley had no-one in his life to talk to, no-one who understood or could be relied upon – except her. She was close enough to the action to understand and far enough away to be objective. And she had clearance, if only in the eyes of George Cowley. But that man's vetting system was far tougher than any Government criteria. She remembered a cancelled dinner engagement when 'some fool of an agent' had failed to set his locks when he popped out to the shops one afternoon. He had only become 'some fool' once he was out of intensive care, of course, and Cowley had felt safe in allowing his fear to turn into anger. And she remembered that had been Doyle. She remembered the anger about Willis and MI6 when they had tried to pin an assassination on one of his agents, and instead shot an innocent woman to place the blame on her; and that had been Bodie. She remembered hearing of the loss of valuable agents to car bombs and explosives, and knowing the meaning behind the words was about the waste of young lives for nothing, of brave men and women fighting the darkness and trying to avoid falling into the shadows themselves.

Like she had done. Oh yes, she listened to Cowley's occasional stories of CI5 and heard the words he didn't say. Not that he ever blamed her for what she'd done. He was too conscientious for that. But she knew she had let him down. When she had fought the darkness, she had allowed it to consume her as well.

It was that darkness that so disgusted Ray Doyle, the unbreakable, incorruptible ex-Met copper who had seen too many criminals escape justice, and too many criminals wearing the same uniform as him, to continue.

It was that darkness that Bodie, the ex-merc, ex-para, ex-SAS, understood. The same darkness he had existed in for a while, before he found his way back out again.

Was it that that made her so comfortable with them? If so, why was it Doyle she felt more natural with than the more morally ambiguous – in background at least – Bodie?

If Bodie had come through that hotel door and approached her while she slept, would she have woken?

She knew she would have, even though her instincts trusted him, even though she was comfortable around him. He hadn't managed to fit into her sense of self like the irascible Doyle had.

She could examine it from all angles; she could dissect the issues behind it with relative ease. What she couldn't do was pinpoint the precise reasons for it. All she knew was that she had lost something as soon as he had pinned her to the wall of the interrogation room. Something had chipped; loosened inside her. Everything since then had merely consolidated his victory.

The shower had stopped, she noticed idly, hearing the sounds of Doyle moving around the bathroom and fitting the actions to the noises. She reached over to the bedside light and switched it on, dispelling the growing darkness of the room. When he emerged, white towel wrapped firmly around slim hips, another towel vigorously drying his hair, she sat up in the bed, carefully holding the towel to her like a virgin on her wedding night.

He saw the movement and gave her a grin. “Did I wake you?”

She shook her head slightly, although she was unable to stifle the yawn that suddenly crept up on her. “No,” she replied at last. “Anyway, you should have – I'm starving.” She watched him curiously, noticing how his movements highlighted his muscles with light and shadows. Droplets of water glinted in his chest hair, drawing her attention to the silvering scars over his heart, where hair no longer grew. The 'fool of an agent' who took a bullet to the heart.

He threw the smaller towel back into the bathroom, recalling her wandering attention as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, agitating the loose curls. “I thought you were ordering room service.” His face, which had darkened even more since his failure to shave that morning, was now smooth. He must have shaved in the bathroom. As he moved, she saw scars lining his back. Neat, precise surgical scars, but mute witnesses to pain and suffering nonetheless.

She tore her gaze away from them. “Just as well I didn't. You were gone nearly an hour.”

“Ah well, Bodie wasn't home the first few times I tried.” He moved over to the cabinet where the menu lay, flicking on another light on his way. He examined the options quickly. “Any preferences?” he asked her, looking back to where she lay. He pretended not to notice her scrutiny.

She shrugged. “Fruit. Some fresh bread. Bodie okay then?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Never got to call the Cow, but was going to after I rang off. Meeting at HQ got cancelled.” He gave the word a heavier emphasis, exchanging a meaningful look with her. “Still - Champagne?” The light caught the flash of white teeth as he grinned. Evidently he wasn't going to allow the mood of the last couple of days to spoil this evening.

She smiled. “Why not? I'm paying.”

He nodded his appreciation. “Strawberries and Champagne it is then. The condemned ate heartily.” She saw him close his eyes suddenly and grimace. “Sorry,” he said quickly, turning an apologetic look in her direction. “That wasn't very tactful of me.”

“Tact is over-rated,” she said easily. “Order what you like, but bear in mind I hate caviare.” He studied her carefully, and she was careful to meet the searching green gaze head-on. She was being honest, and she wanted him to see that. She was finding she couldn't lie to him, and she didn't want him to know he had that kind of power over her. But she wanted him to see that she wasn't hiding anything from him.

He gave a soft, easy smile which she couldn't stop herself returning. “You're a woman of simple tastes really, aren't you?” he said quietly. He turned away and left the bedroom before he could see the surprise in her expression.

She lay back in the pillows, wondering how it was this total stranger managed to read her like a book; she, who had prized her secrecy above all else, jealously guarding her past and identity from everyone. And then Doyle had appeared and blown it all wide open.

She heard him moving around the lounge area, the pure ringing sound of crystal against crystal – obviously pouring himself a drink. Then she heard his voice, speaking to room service, his tone warm and melodious. Then soft sounds of music came from the lounge, and she heard him changing radio channels, until finally settling on sweeping classical music. She felt herself gently falling into another drowse as the feeling of security and warmth soothed her.

The next thing she knew was the feeling of soft prickles dragging over her lips, a weight next to her that could only be Doyle, and the strong scent of strawberries. Keeping her eyes closed, she suddenly opened her lips and caught the strawberry, opening her eyes and looking up to meet Doyle's gaze as she munched contentedly on the sweet fruit.

His expression surprised her, his eyes large and dark. He held her gaze as he took the remaining half of the strawberry from her lips and put it in his mouth, licking the juices from his fingers.

“Food's arrived,” he said, his voice sounding rough.

“So I noticed,” she replied. He watched her tongue flick out to gather the strawberry juices that lingered on her lips. She gave him a teasing look. “Can't eat in bed. Think of the crumbs.”

He nodded solemnly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “They could prove problematic, it's true,” he agreed. He held out another strawberry for her consideration. “On the other hand, it's comfortable.” He popped the strawberry into her open mouth and watched her lips move as she chewed. “And decadent,” he added.

“Decadent?” she echoed around half eaten strawberry.

His gaze moved from her lips to her eyes, his expression suddenly strangely serious. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Decadent.”

His mouth met hers in the same gentle brush as that morning, only now all teasing was gone. His lips were warm and strong, tasting of strawberries. As she felt his tongue brush softly over her lips, she reacted instinctively, opening her mouth to his gentle persuasion, and finding the sweetness of his mouth far exceeded any food. She reached out, her fingers finding his smooth cheek and following the line of his jaw, gently pulling him deeper into the kiss. He did not resist. She felt his arm wrap around her waist, hand pressing against her back, drawing her closer. She did not know when the towel had slid from her, but gave a startled groan as she felt the soft hairs of his chest tantalise her breasts, drawing a shiver of delight as the hair caressed the sensitive nipples.

She gave a soft noise of complaint as his mouth left hers, opening her eyes to see him gazing down at her. What she saw in those green depths frightened her as much as it ignited her senses. His hand moved from her waist, and his fingers lightly touched the curve of her eyebrow, his eyes watching where his fingers touched as though she were something new and intriguing. The fingers trailed gently down her nose, pausing to brush against her lips, before laying a feather light trail down her throat.

She gasped and stiffened as his touch brushed against her collarbone, moving relentlessly down to stroke in between her breasts. When his fingertips brushed against her scar, his eyes left watching where his hands moved and met her gaze again. He saw the fear in the indigo depths, the slight bracing for rejection in her attitude. Instead, he met her gaze defiantly, his fingers deliberately tracing the long, ugly scar, gentling and accepting it, before letting his hand slide naturally over her hip and down her thigh.

She gave a shuddering sigh and reached out for him, her touch more confident as she slid her fingers into his hair, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. Her hand slid down his neck and he arched into it, leading her hand over his Adam's apple and down to the dip of his collarbone. Her lips followed, unable to resist the lure of the pulse beating strongly where his neck met his collarbone. He shuddered at the feather-light caress of her fingers on the network of scars over his heart. Her tongue stroked the skin, tasting the salt sweetness of his flesh, as her fingers trailed down his side, nails grazing against his ribs, eliciting a deep groan that he could not suppress. The towel around his hip loosened easily, and her hand skimmed over his hip bone, sliding around a downy buttock. Her lips continued their careful, precise exploration of his chest, breath softly kissing over his scars as though she could erase them with her lips alone.

He was lost in the sensation of her tongue, teeth and lips as they nipped and licked across his chest, distracting him, leaving his hand caressing her waist and hips without conscious thought. This was no biddable, straightforward bed mate, he realised. Her desire to please him was part of her desire to please herself, his pleasure linked to hers, her demands matching his own. He could relax in the knowledge that this was one lover who would not flinch from his scars, who would understand that sometimes the gentleness was overcome with need, and who would take his need and make it hers.

He slid his other arm under the pillow and caught the back of her head, filling his hand with her hair and pulling her head up to meet his lips in a bruising kiss that left her gasping. Leaving the warm sweetness of her mouth, he trailed kisses down her neck, his hand still gripping her hair, pulling her head back gently to expose more of her pale throat to his mouth. Mirroring what she had done to him, he sucked at the join of her throat, causing her to groan loudly, her hands fluttering over him in mindless caresses. It had been so long since she had felt confident enough to take a man to bed, so long since she had felt the reassurance of someone stronger holding her. But never had she had a man who knew her so well, knew what she was capable of, what her hands could do, and still allowed the contact, welcomed her strength, and met her own demands without hesitation. She did not have to pretend at all, and the freedom to allow her passion full rein without rejection or fear shattered the control she had always been forced to practice. She could be herself; Doyle could withstand anything she did to him, and she wanted to take everything he could give.

They continued battling for dominance, at turns wilfully submitting to asserting touches before turning and demanding surrender in return, each press and contact leaving any control abandoned in its wake. Each battle was won or lost without regret, as they shared each other's victory as their own. It was mutual need, mutual understanding, and the ability to meet, match and exceed the other than led them higher and higher.

She arched into him as his fingers slid inside her, opening her eyes to catch him smiling at her reaction. Revenge was him throwing his head back, giving a deep groan, as her hand wrapped around his hard shaft, thumb teasing over the sensitive tip and gently rubbing where the head met the foreskin. When her hand was replaced with the warm, wet softness of her mouth, he lost himself in the overwhelming sensation of tongue and the gentle threat of teeth. They moved, instinctively knowing where the other wanted them to be. He slid down her body, feeling her freeze as his tongue lapped at her wet centre. She gave a shuddering groan, melting into his touch as he explored her hidden depths. Rising up to bring their mouths together again, they tasted each other, the mingling of their essences, sweeter and stronger than wine.

He entered her in one smooth stroke, seeing her eyes widen at the sudden heat deep inside her, and smiled at the look of surprise on her face. Her warmth surrounded him in smooth, silken grasp, and he groaned at the ripple of muscles that clenched around him as though she would never let him go. When they started to move, the battle continued, alternating between slow, gentle love making and uncontrollable urging, hands gentling, caressing, gripping. Those hard muscles slid around his hips, pulling him into her, holding him close. His one arm wrapped around her waist like a steel cord binding her to him. Without breaking contact, she swung him onto his back, straddling him, driving him deeper inside her in one fast movement that left him gasping and clinging to control. Nails dragged gently down his chest, and any remaining control was lost as he reached for her hips to pull her down again and again.

It was too intense to last long, and yet the changing roles and tensions made it last longer than he would have thought possible. When he felt the subtle change in her muscles, the tension that gripped him so hard and pulled him so deep, he felt his own orgasm building deep in his gut, pouring into her as her muscles rippled over him. He arched his back, fingers digging into her hips, and gave a hoarse scream, dimly aware of her own cry as she threw back her head and pushed down onto him, holding him as deep inside her as possible.

He opened his eyes, seeing whorls and spots of light dance in front of them. His breathing was ragged. She fell against his chest, her heart hammering against his, dragging air into her lungs in rough gasps. They lay together in silence, mouths dry as hoarse breathing slowed and returned to normality, pounding hearts gradually calming once more. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her to lie against his side. They stroked and caressed each other gently, too lost in the aftermath for words. He reached to tilt her face up towards him and claimed her mouth in a long, slow kiss.

“I thought you said food?” she said at last. He felt her lips curl into a smile.

“Food?” he said. She looked up and saw the feral light in his eyes. “I'll give you food,” he growled, pushing her back into the bed and taking her mouth again.

They did stop to eat, and drink the champagne, playfully dipping strawberries into the sparkling drink and feeding each other, until feeding turned to kissing, and touching, and they made love again. The passion of their first coupling had not lessened, but their desire for conclusion had, and they explored each other freely, comfortable to dominate and be dominated in return. Eventually, they drifted into sleep, limbs tangled together in surrender.

 

 

Consciousness returned to Bodie somewhat unwillingly, bringing with it a rising taste of bile in his mouth and a head that felt like a pick axe had been driven through it; was still being driven through it, inch by inch. He heard a low moan and tried to place it, before realising it had been him. A blindfold covered his eyes, and his grudging awareness took in his position; he was bound to a chair, arms behind him, ankles lashed to the chair legs. Ropes circled his chest, holding him to the chair back.

He felt a subtle change in air around him.

“Here. It's water. Drink.” He started slightly as a cold glass was placed carefully to his lips, the movement of his body sending more violent pain through his throbbing skull, flashing like lights across his darkened eyes. The glass was held securely as he sipped the blessedly cool liquid. The hand that guided it was gentle, allowing him time to drink as much as he wanted. He tried to place the voice as his awareness grew.

“You okay?” the voice asked again. It was the dark haired man, he realised. The one who had appeared to be in control.

“Why do you care?” he croaked, his voice thick.

He heard a soft laugh and felt movement as the man shifted away. “This is nothing personal, Bodie. Just a means to an end.”

“Don't talk to him.” A sharp female voice cut through. Bodie heard the echoes around them, and tried to picture his surroundings. There was a hollowness to the sound, a musty smell in his nostrils. Somewhere bare, with little or no furniture or soft furnishings to deaden the sound. A warehouse maybe?

“He's not the enemy,” the man continued.

No, not enough echoes for a warehouse, Bodie realised. He drew in another breath. There was a smell of oil, engine oil, old but distinct. A garage perhaps?

“He's CI5. He works for Cowley.” It was the blonde woman, he realised. The one who had koshed him so soundly; the one with hatred in her eyes.

“Leave it.” Another voice interrupted her. Another woman, Bodie realised. “He is a means to an end. That is all.”

He felt someone move closer to him again, his head twitching automatically towards them. “Here.” The man's voice was closer now. Bodie could tell he had crouched down to the same level. “Nothing but Aspirin, I promise you.” He felt a hand close around his mouth, the chalky texture of tablets on his lips. He flinched away from them, although the movement made his head swim and nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

“Come on, mate,” the man tried a more friendly tone. “Aspirin, I promise you.”

Bodie shook his head, ignoring the stabbing pains the movement caused. “No. Just water.”

He heard a sigh, and felt the glass against his lips again. He drank more confidently now. “Have it your own way,” the man said softly.

“Don't interact with him. Keep your distance.” The strange woman's voice was authoritative, and Bodie realised it wasn't the dark haired man who held sway.

“He's not the enemy. He does a job, the same as us,” the man argued back. “I won't hurt him unless I have to.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, mate,” Bodie muttered.

“It's true. I won't.” The man sounded honest, but it would take more than that to convince Bodie. “That doesn't mean I won't if I think it's necessary.” There was a cold hardness in the man's voice that convinced Bodie that that much at least was true.

He felt the man move, stand up and walk away from him, and cast his senses around trying to place the other figures. It was quite futile.

“When do we make the call?”

“Tomorrow morning,” the strange woman answered. “We'll show Cowley he can't protect a murderer all her life.”

He heard the voices recede into the distance, and the closing of a door. He felt alone again, in the darkness. He tested the binding on his wrists. As well as the handcuffs, he could feel a thin strip of plastic cutting into him. Cable ties, he realised. Over that was some kind of thick cable, more supple that electric flex. Something like washing line cord, he guessed. Thin, strong, and flexible. Whoever had trussed him had done a good job. He wasn't going anywhere.

He sighed and tried to control his breathing, conserving his energy and planning his movements. If nothing else, he could find out why he was being held. Providing they came back, of course, he reminded himself.

A slight noise and a disturbance in the air around him betrayed the return of one of his captors. He heard the click of a door closing, then felt the sudden prick of a needle in his arm. A small hand covered his mouth, muffling the cry of complaint.

“Nothing but a mild sedative,” a woman's voice hissed in his ear. He felt the hardness of a ring on the hand covering his mouth, and felt the slight pressure of nails on his cheek. The strange woman who he hadn't seen. Why had they let him see them, he thought?

He felt his limbs start to weigh heavily and sagged lower in the chair. The hand left his mouth, obviously now satisfied that he was incapable of any complaint.

“We really don't want to hurt you, Mr. Bodie,” the voice continued, as he slid into unconsciousness.

 

 

Doyle awoke with a nagging feeling of something not quite making sense. Maggie lay alongside him, nestling into his chest and breathing contentedly. Idly, he stroked her back with the one hand, his other reaching to caress her arm as it lay across him. Sex with Magpie proved to be an exhausting, all-encompassing event. There hadn't been a moment of discomfort or embarrassment. Each seemed to know instinctively what the other wanted, and had provided it without prompting. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when he had felt quite so replete.

But something was bothering him. Something he couldn't quite place. He glanced at the clock; 7am. He may as well make a move.

He slid out from her embrace and padded softly to the bathroom. Amazingly, she didn't stir. He wondered at the open trust displayed in such a simple act; to lie asleep in his arms, and not waken at his movement.

It was about half an hour later, when he was in the lounge wearing only the new jeans she had bought him as he looked through the meagre folders on Draven and Magpie, that he heard her stir. He looked up and saw her leaning against the door way from the bedroom, a smile on her face and a soft, tender look in her eyes.

“You're up early,” she said.

He shrugged. “Lots to do today.” He left the papers and walked over to where she stood, pulling her into his arms for a deep, thorough kiss. “Mmmmm.” He pulled away and grinned down at her, his arms locked around her waist. “Much as I'd love to take you back to that very expensive bed and see what else we can come up with, we have to work out who's trying to kill you first, before we can relax and enjoy the finer things.”

Her hands caressed his bare back with feather-light touches. “Is that what you are, one of the finer things?” He saw the teasing light in the violet eyes, and bent down to plant a light kiss on her nose.

“You'd better believe it. Now,” he turned her around and gave a light slap to her bare rump. “Off to the shower with you, wench. You look like someone who's been shagged to within an inch of their life.”

She turned to give him a playful pout, one eyebrow arched. “Do I indeed? And have you looked in a mirror this morning?”

He grinned “No. But I can imagine.” He pulled her back into his arms, unwilling after all to let go of her so soon. “I want to take my time with you,” he murmured into her mouth, laying gentle kisses against her jaw. “I don't want to have to keep one eye on all possible exits and a gun under the pillow.”

“That would make a refreshing change,” she agreed. She pushed away from him and regarded him seriously. “Just so you understand, I don't go to bed with just anyone. I don't sleep with people easily.” That was an understatement, she knew. She didn't sleep with anyone. She had never felt sufficiently confident before to relax enough. Doyle was something special, and she wanted to explore that new-found release.

“Understood,” he answered, noticing the vulnerability in her attitude. Obviously, she wasn't as confident as she liked to appear.

She smiled and moved away. “Right. But you're next for the shower. You look like the cat dragged you in.”

“And you're the cat,” he replied, watching her disappear into the bathroom, before returning to the paperwork.

The sounds of her shower receded into the background. He spread the papers out in front of him on the small coffee table. There had to be something here, something that had woken him from sleep. What was it he had been thinking about? He closed his eyes, trying to call back the sensations.

Dates. “ _First man I killed, I was 17. Killed another six before I was 18..... It was March, 1971...... 18.....”_

Doyle's opened his eyes suddenly.

“ _You've probably already worked out that my first kills weren't done for money.”_

“ _"Then you'll probably have guessed that the first men I killed were the ones who murdered my father.”_

1970\. Seven men died in 1970, murdered by Maggie before she was Magpie, in revenge for the murder of her father, and what had been done to her.

He reached for the file on Andrew Draven and found what his subconscious had been trying to tell him. The list of police officers investigating the double murder of Andrew Draven and his daughter. Nine officers in all. One had since retired. One still worked.

The other seven were dead. All within a six month period, ending in November 1970. Two Detective Sergeants, two Inspectors, one Detective Constable, one Inspector, and one Superintendent. None of the deaths were given as murder; there were four deaths with natural causes, one car accident, one 'accidental death due to asphyxiation'. Of the auto-erotic kind, Doyle presumed; what the black humour of coppers referred to as 'going while you're coming'. And one suicide. No foul play mentioned.

But all within the six months before Maggie turned 18. Before she made her first professional kill.

And all involved with the investigation of her father's crooked dealings and his murder.

Doyle threw the papers back on the table, standing up quickly and walking over to the windows. He rested his head against the cool glass. Maggie had killed seven men. Seven coppers.

“Ray?” Her voice came from the doorway. He didn't want to turn around and look at her, couldn't trust the anger he felt rising through him. He heard her move and realised he had to react else she would touch him – and he jolted involuntarily as awareness coursed through him. She had touched him, all night. All night, they had made love. He had made love to a cop killer.

He turned around finally to face her and she froze, seeing the hard look on his face, and not understanding the cause. She frowned, pulling the towel closer around her in subconscious self-defence. Something about the hardness of his look made her feel nervous.

“Ray?” she said again, desperately wanting to know what had changed in the brief time she had been in the shower. The man who had become her lover was gone, the man who had protected her, argued and comforted her over the last few days, was now a stranger. She didn't know this cold, angry man. She didn't want to.

When he spoke, his voice was cold, brittle. Each word like a weapon. “Did you deliberately not mention it?”

Her frown deepened and she blinked in confusion. “Not mention what?” she asked. She looked around, noticing the folders spread out on the sofa and coffee table, then turned the questioning look back to him. “What?” she asked again.

His angry gaze raked her from head to foot before meeting her eyes again. “You killed coppers,” he snarled. He saw the truth in her eyes without her having to speak.

He stormed past her, pushing her out of his way as he headed for the bedroom. She tried to hold on as he pushed her away, but he tore himself from her grip easily.

“Ray. Please.”

Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. He paused in the doorway. She shuddered at the hatred in the grass green eyes.

“I'm going for a shower,” he snapped. His disgusted look moved from her to the bed and back, making his opinion clear. “I need one.”

“Don't do that!” she shouted, stopping him in his tracks. She stood, trembling with some emotion he couldn't place and at the moment didn't care to try. The large violet eyes regarded him, tears starting to brim and fall over the long black lashes. She seemed disgusted with the weakness they displayed.

“Don't take this and try to turn it into something else. Don't stand there and try to make me feel cheap, and dirty, and used.” She snapped, her voice wavering as tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, trying to hide the hurt.

He met her defiant gaze with a cold look. “Why? Aren't you?” he accused, turning his back on her and stalking into the bathroom.

He missed the open pain his words had brought her; missed the way she stumbled as though about to fall. She felt a yawning pit open up inside her, and she wanted to howl in her agony. She had awoken this morning feeling more alive than she could ever remember, feeling more at ease with her new lover than she had ever felt with any other human being since she had begun this life of death. For the first time in her life, she felt comfortable with someone who knew the worst of her and who still wanted her. She had even wondered whether she would at last find someone who accepted all of her, darkness and everything

But then he had found out what she had done. Discovered the one thing she hadn't lied about, but had simply omitted in the telling. Because the men she had killed had been policemen, in name at least; but she could never think of them as such. Not after what they had done, after they had destroyed her father's honour and taken his life.

And now, even in death, they had taken what was possibly her one chance at some kind of happiness, however fleeting it may be. Killed it before it had even been given a chance to develop.

Leaden feet led her back into the bedroom and she dressed mechanically. Why had she deluded herself, allowed herself even the shred of hope of some kind of normality. She should have remembered the lesson she learned in Hong Kong, the lesson that had driven her away and made her certain on her remaining course of action. She had made the decision to kill them, made the decision to continue killing to try and make their deaths meaningless in her life. And in that she had succeeded. She did not regret the choices she had made. She knew she had to live with the consequences of her actions.

She stuffed her remaining possessions back in her new black bag, a few clothes, cash, her Beretta and ammunition. She held the gun in her hands for a while, staring at the blue/black satin finish. Maybe she should learn to pay for her decisions, even if it cost her her life. After all, what kind of life was it anyway?

She looked out over the waking London, busy about its business, and allowed the tears to fall unchecked. She should never have allowed Doyle to get so close, and yet she had been unable to stop it. She could blame it on her tiredness, her confused state given the pursuit to which she had been subjected – but it would not be honest. She could not allow herself the luxury of the lies. She could not have stopped Doyle getting under her skin if she had tried. She would just have to deal with it.

She sighed and wiped away the tears. She had been hurt before and she had survived. That which does not kill you makes you stronger. And though the look of disgust on Doyle's face had been like a real physical wound to her, she knew it was something she would just have to deal with. After all, it was no more than she deserved.

She was so uncharacteristically wrapped in her own misery that she failed to notice the blond man creep into the apartment. Silent footsteps brought him into the bedroom. He saw the slightly built woman sat on the bed, facing out of the window, and smiled to himself. The sound of the shower revealed the location of the other CI5 agent. He reached into his jacket and brought out a hypodermic. After all this time, that it could be this easy.

 

 

Doyle let the water sluice over him, resting his head against the cool tiles. Damn, damn, damn! He punctuated each silent curse by banging his head gently against the wall. Why had she walked in while he was still dealing with the recent discovery? Just a few minutes more, a few minutes longer, and he would have found a way of reconciling what he had found out with what he knew. Instead, he'd lashed out, aiming for maximum damage, and – reviewing what he had said – he guessed he had succeeded. Cop killer she was, but she hadn't deserved that. She hadn't lied, even if she had omitted to mention it.

He soaped himself slowly, turning under the warm running water and feeling his tension drain away with it. He sighed. It wasn't as simple as her being a cop killer. He had to factor in all he knew about her before adding that to the mix. And what did he know? She didn't kill for fun. She obviously valued life because she never killed needlessly; she never killed the bodyguards for example. Regardless of the risk to herself, she had only ever killed those she set out to kill. And, more importantly perhaps, Cowley had still trusted her, used her talents. Cowley would never have protected a cop killer, not unless there were reasons for it.

And there were, weren't there? Other throwaway comments came together in his mind. “ _Dad wasn't on the take, though. They just made it look like that.”_ Who else would have been perfectly placed to do that but other coppers? Andrew Draven had been murdered by his police colleagues; his daughter had been raped and left for dead by them. And she had killed them; covered her tracks so well their deaths weren't even suspicious. She hadn't tortured them, or mutilated them. She had killed them. It didn't make it right, but it made it understandable.

And then he remembered Bodie's words. What Magpie sought wasn't sympathy or understanding. _Acceptance_. Acceptance for what she was, what she had done.

He towelled himself dry roughly and shimmied back into the tight jeans. Time he went out and apologised, allowed her to explain like she had tried to before he had snarled his accusation at her.

Always providing she hadn't done a runner while he'd been hiding in here, getting his thoughts together.

The thought made him move quicker, pushing through the bathroom door, fully intending to run barefoot down the street if she had left the hotel. Instead, he saw her fighting with a tall blond man who had her pinned to the bed beneath him. A split second was all it took for Doyle to take in the hypodermic syringe in his one hand and the silenced Browning in the other. Maggie had a firm grasp of both wrists, trying desperately to loosen the grip around one or the other weapon and get the upper hand.

Doyle moved quickly to throw the man off the bed, the noise he made distracting the man briefly. Maggie, attention fixed on the hypodermic, shining in the morning light, did not notice which direction the Browning was pointing.

The subtle _pfft_ of the gun froze all three in a tableau. Doyle was the first to move, pulling the blond man off Maggie with a growl and throwing him aside. He encountered less resistance than he expected. He took in the sight of Maggie, lying back on the tousled bed, eyes wide in shock, hands covered in blood. He quickly saw there was no entrance wound on her, the blood on her hands was not hers.

He turned back to the blond man, seeing him lying on the floor, hands grasping helplessly at his stomach as blood pumped slowly out of the wound. He looked up at Doyle with tears in the pale blue eyes, blood trickling from his mouth as his lips moved soundlessly. Before anyone could speak, the blue eyes glazed over, and the mouth stopped moving. His hands slid from the wound.

“He's dead?” The soft voice came from the bed. Doyle stooped to the body and began searching through pockets for ID, anything to give some clues.

“Yes,” he said quickly, economically.

“But...” Something in the voice made him turn to her, to see where she crouched, kneeling on the bed, watching the body with wide eyes. Confusion momentarily overwhelmed him. It wasn't like this was the first time she'd seen a dead body.

She stood up, losing some of the frozen look to her expression as she wrapped her arms around her and gazed down at the dead man. Doyle stood and took her into his arms, feeling the rigid way she held herself against him, realising it was as much for his treatment of her before this had happened as it was the surprise at the attack.

“Hey. It was an accident,” he said gently. He put his hand under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “It was an accident,” he repeated.

“I didn't mean....” she began again. He watched her, confusion creasing his brow. She was pale, dry-eyed, but there had been a kind of panic hiding in those violet depths. It was gone in the blink of an eye, but he knew he'd seen it. Something beyond her control.

“Sshhhh.” He stroked her back soothingly, pulling her back into his arms. “I know. It was an accident, Maggie. Just an accident.”

“I've never killed anyone I didn't mean to before,” she said quietly against his chest.

As admissions went, he had to admit, this one had a certain irony to it. The cold blooded assassin responsible for the deaths of 78 men, transformed at the death of someone by accident. Just because she had not intended to kill someone, even in self-defence. It was a bizarre standard of morality.

Ah, but then, hadn't Cowley said _“There's a difference between cold-hearted and being heartless.”_ And this was it. Maggie was cold-blooded, calm and calculated; cold-hearted, of necessity, but not heartless. Efficiency did not equate to callousness.

Leaving one arm around her, holding her against him, he flicked open the wallet he had found in the dead man's jacket. And felt his stomach turn over.

He gave a sigh. “Time to call Cowley, love,” he said softly. He squeezed her gently before releasing her and looking down into her face with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She gave a nod, her self-control restored.

Doyle reached for his R/T. He cast another look at the wallet in his hand, at the badge it held.

Special Branch.

Suddenly, an already complicated world had developed even more layers.

 

 

By the time Cowley and the clean up crew had arrived, Maggie had washed again and changed from the blood stained clothes. She had not given the dead body a second glance. Neither had she spared much attention for Doyle, he noticed. She stood, leaning against the wall at the edge of the window in the lounge, looking out over the city. No-one would see her through the blinds, but Doyle couldn't shake the feeling of danger. He wanted to move her away from the window, but knew it was more an excuse to go to her than any actual security requirement.

Instead, he gave his report to Cowley, noticing Bodie was conspicuous by his absence. He glanced at his watch. It was just turned 9am.

“Has Bodie reported in yet, sir?” he asked. He had tried telephoning Bodie's apartment to fill the silence while waiting for Cowley to arrive. When there had been no answer, he'd expected his partner to turn up with the clean up detail.

Cowley frowned. “Why should he do that?”

An uncomfortable feeling crept over him. “He was meant to contact you last night, sir. He'd had a message through the R/T to report back to HQ.”

Cowley's gimlet stare looked like it could melt cold steel. “What message?”

“He got a message at about 4.50 yesterday afternoon. While I was with him.” Maggie's voice came from across the room. She turned to look at Cowley. “We thought it sounded peculiar, but he said it would be best to play along.”

“What did they say?”

She blinked and her gaze flickered as she recalled the conversation, knowing Cowley would have no time for vague replies. “They said you – Alpha One – wanted either Bodie or Doyle to return to base for further briefing. They wanted to know whether we had stayed together or separated. They wanted whoever didn't go to HQ to stay with me.”

“I was tailed, briefly,” Doyle admitted. “I lost them before I met up with Maggie, though.”

“And what of Bodie?” Cowley demanded.

“Spoke to him last night, just turned half eight. He said he had just been about to pull into HQ when the briefing was cancelled. I was going to ring him either at HQ or at his place this morning at nine.”

Murphy appeared at Cowley's shoulder, handing the Controller a piece of paper. Doyle saw it looked like a photograph. “Where did you 'phone him from?”

“Dorchester, across the road and round the corner. I'd tried from another couple before then, though, before I got an answer.”

Cowley gave a brief nod, whether of understanding or approval, Doyle couldn't tell. “Aye, well, it seems our friend in Special Branch was one step ahead of you.” He turned the photograph to show Doyle a black and white picture of Maggie with both of them, a copy of the one that had been left in her car along with the others. “It seems all he had to do was ring around a few hotels and ask if they'd seen anyone matching the description. Then he came in with the photograph to confirm identification.” The disappointment in his eyes was matched by the thinning of his lips. “That was too easy, 4-5.”

“It was my idea,” Magpie interrupted, moving towards them and standing beside Doyle. She still would not look at him, he noticed. “We split up, booked into around 30 hotels around London to try and throw them off.”

“Aye, well it didn't work. And we still don't know where 3-7 is.”

Magpie blanched. “I was supposed to be the tethered goat, not your men,” she snapped. “I told you...”

“And I told you.” Cowley's snarl silenced her. “Until I get evidence to the contrary, we will assume there is nothing sinister in 3-7's absence.” His tone brooked no argument. “Now. Doyle, you and Murphy will escort Magpie to HQ and get her in one of the interview rooms. No deviation from route, am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Doyle replied sharply, knowing the old man was in no mood for argument. He reached out and took hold of Maggie's elbow, pretending not to notice the slight flinch as he touched her. “Come on,” he urged gently.

Leaving the team to deal with the mess of the hotel suite, he led Maggie from the hotel, Murphy close by, keeping an eye out for any attack. The drive to HQ was in silence and without incident, both Murphy and Doyle keeping a watch out for any tail. Maggie, Doyle noticed, seemed withdrawn, not even pretending an interest in the proceedings. Back at HQ, he led her into one of the more comfortable interview rooms, sending Murphy off in search of coffee and breakfast, hoping the time alone would give him a chance to recoup some of her lost trust.

“Look,” he started as soon as he closed the door, speaking to Maggie's back as she seemed determined not to look directly at him. “I have to apologise.”

“No you don't,” she said, her voice firm.

“I do. I said things – look, it was just a shock, you know?”

She turned at last and looked at him. He was silenced by the blank look in her dark blue eyes, and wondered just how much he had hurt her.

“You seem determined to think there's some redeeming feature to me, Doyle,” she said at last. “Tell me – when did I ever give you the impression I was anything but a killer?”

The coldness in her voice made him flinch. She was trying to provoke him, it seemed. “Strikes me a real cold-hearted killer wouldn't have cared about killing that Special Branch bloke.”

She stiffened. “I told you – I don't like killing someone by accident.”

“And why's that?”

She turned away from him, taking time to make herself comfortable on a chair while she thought about her answer. “I nearly made a mistake once,” she admitted. “Said I wouldn't do it again.”

“Go on.”

Her head snapped up to face him, features pale and drawn. “You think screwing me gives you the right to ask anything?” she snarled.

He watched her impassively, refusing to allow her to bait him. She was trying to turn this into a proper argument, he realised. Defusing the tension and diverting his attention away from the important issues. “Yes,” he said simply. “Or do you think I'm stupid enough to think you'd let just anyone get that close to you?”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly, as she realised he wouldn't be distracted. Wondering just why she allowed him under her skin, she knew she wouldn't lie to him, and couldn't bring herself to be anything but honest. Even though the honesty merely added to his image of her as a cold-blooded killer.

“One of those coppers you found out about – I poisoned him,” she admitted, her voice harsh as she tried to control her warring emotions. “He was a smoker. I broke into his car and tampered with his last packet of cigarettes. One fag left in the packet. I laced it with pure nicotine.”

“What happened?” Doyle carefully couched his voice as neutral as possible.

She sighed, standing up suddenly, the chair scraping loudly on the floor as she moved. “Smoked it while he was driving home, didn't he?” she said, her accent broadening as her anger took hold. She leaned against the wall, a distant look on her face as she recounted the incident. “When I found out, I realised he could have hit another car, killed a pedestrian – anything. Made me angry to think I hadn't thought it through properly. Made me realise there were some things I wasn't prepared to do. Cutting corners was one of them.” Her gaze flicked up to him in a look of something like embarrassment. “Killing someone unintentionally is not something I ever wanted to do.”

They were interrupted by Murphy with mugs of fresh coffee and bacon sandwiches. Taking note of the tension in the room, he nodded a greeting to Maggie and left, flashing a curious look at Doyle on his way out. Once he had left, silence descended on them once more. He took the opportunity to reach for a coffee, holding it out to her as some kind of peace offering. She regarded him carefully through hooded eyes before slowly pushing herself away from the wall and approaching him. She took the proferred coffee cautiously. It reminded Doyle of feeding wild animals, waiting for her to approach him, not making any sudden movements.

“You never told me why you quit,” he said quietly when she had taken the coffee.

She met his gaze, taking a sip of the warm liquid and letting it settle her insides. “It's not an easy question to answer,” she admitted.

He reached for his own coffee. “So try.”

She cradled the mug in her hands, staring into the depths as though searching for answers. Finally, she spoke. “It's the same reason I started, I suppose,” she said at last. Instead of prompting her, he waited as she took another sip of coffee, waited until she had found the words to answer him.

“I was good at it,” she said. A strange look crossed her face. “I ran away from – from Hong Kong” she continued, hesitating over the beginning for some reason Doyle couldn’t fathom. “I started because I tracked those seven bent coppers who set up my Dad and got rid of them without anyone even noticing.” She gave a short laugh that had no humour in it. “Except Cowley, of course.” The smile died on her lips as she stared into nothing again. “I carried on because I was good at it. And it meant they didn't matter. I’d burned my bridges with the first of them – there didn’t seem any point in stopping then.” She hesitated, and Doyle sensed her searching for the next words she needed to say. “I stopped – well.” She shrugged. “I stopped because I was good at it. I haven't needed the money since I was 22. I've only ever charged so much money because it means people thought twice about hiring me. I started because I wanted to forget them. I stopped because I wanted to remember.” She finally looked up to meet his gaze. “Does that make any kind of sense?” she asked.

He nodded sadly. “Yes,” he said softly. “It does.”

“I've never really been anyone, Ray,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “You'd think it would be easy, having your identity wiped clean. You can start with any name, any past, anything you want. But it's just playing a part. Like you're constantly undercover. It got that the only part I could play convincingly was Magpie. But that's not _me_.” She rolled the mug in her hands, staring into space once more. “No-one wanted me. They wanted someone cleaner, nicer. Warmer. So I tried to be like that. I tried being so many different people, but they weren't me. So I thought that if I retired, I'd be able to just be me. But I was wrong.” She took a drink of the cooling coffee. “Turns out there really is nothing to me but a burned out, worn out, ex-assassin. And that's not something I want to inflict on anyone.” She gave a wan smile. “The stupid thing is, the closest I've got is these last few days. With you.” There was a vulnerability in her look that made him regret his prying questions. “Because for the first time ever – the first time – I was just _me_.”

“It's not like Cowley gave you a choice,” he said, not wanting to recognise the pain in those dark blue eyes, not wanting to admit his part in it.

She shook her head. “You underestimate yourself,” she said with a soft smile. “I didn't have to tell you a damn thing. Nothing. I could have left you with just what Cowley told you. That's what I intended to do.”

“So what changed your mind?”

“You did,” she said simply. “Turns out the one thing I hadn't counted on was someone like you. You don't pretend. You didn't even pretend to like me. It made it easy to tell you things, made it difficult for me to pretend around you. And that's quite dangerous for someone like me.”

“I didn't want to hurt you,” he said softly, awkwardly, recognising the pain in her eyes and knowing he had caused it.

“It's not your fault, Ray,” she said. “You didn't set out to seduce me.”

He smiled gently. “Neither did you.”

To his surprise, she looked away, blushing. “No.”

She gave a sigh and turned away, placing the mug back on the table then pushing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I really don't like talking about my past,” she admitted. “Well, it's not like I've got much practice in it,” she added quickly, giving him a candid look. “And talking about the people I've killed,” she shook her head gently. “I just don't know how to do it,” she finished.

Abruptly, she took a chair and turned it around, the back facing him. She straddled it, leaning on the back rest and regarding him with a determined look. “I didn't have to kill those men,” she said, her words firm but rushed, as though she had to speak before she thought too much about it. “I could come out with all the usual excuses of the nightmares I had, the dreams, the way I had to know they were dead.” She let out a gust of air, running out of options. “It's what people say, isn't it? 'I'll kill them'. But it wasn't like that. Yes, I wanted them dead; yes, I wanted some kind of justice. But I didn't _have_ to do it. I made the choice.”

Her eyes searched his face for understanding, needing some sign that what she said made some kind of sense to him. He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, in what he hoped was the right note of neutrality.

It seemed to be what she wanted to hear. She gave another sigh. “Cowley wanted to try again, to build up the evidence against them, but it was impossible. They knew he was on to them, they didn't make the same mistakes again.”

“But why your Dad? Why you?” he asked at last.

She gave him a look of surprise, blinking rapidly. He knew she had forgotten he didn't know the full story. It seemed to throw her off. “Oh. I thought I said. I didn't, did I?” He waited while she arranged her thoughts. “This is the problem with not telling people things. I forget how to tell it. I don't even say these things in the privacy of my own head.” He gave a small smile, this candid, straightforward, almost transparent Maggie was very unlike the cold-blooded Magpie. He felt like he could see the real woman starting to come through.

“Dad knew his boss and some of his mates were on the take. I don't know much about it, other than that. I was a kid. He didn't tell me anything. I know he told Cowley he was investigating things. He had evidence – receipts, transcripts, photos. But no copies. The blokes who broke into the house that night wanted all his evidence. He wouldn't give it to them, not until they started on me. He just wanted them to stop hurting me.” The large eyes were dry, but Doyle had caught the almost imperceptible quiver of her lip. She paused briefly and he knew she was keeping herself as calm as possible. “He handed it all over. Then they.” She stopped suddenly, and swallowed, blinking a few times as she tried to assemble the words. “They made him watch,” she said at last. “They strangled me, cut me open. Made him think I was dead. Then they shot him.”

Long legs brought him to her chair, where he crouched, hands holding the back of the chair. He didn't touch her, but he stood close enough to share body heat, his face close enough to hers that he could feel the light caress of her breath. Her dark eyes searched his for any sign of pity; he could see the warning look in her eyes as she prepared herself for an angry retort.

His warm green gaze held no pity; there was no sympathy in his look. Just understanding. And something else. Something that made her heart melt. She reached out hesitantly and brushed his cheek with her fingers.

“I didn't have to kill them, Ray,” she whispered. “I wanted to.”

His eyes widened, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Do you think it's an excuse?” He shook his head gently. “It's not an excuse, Maggie. It's a reason.”

She smiled shakily, relief in her eyes. He understood, after all. He took her hand from his cheek and pressed the palm to his lips. “I saw the reports. You killed them. But you didn't torture them. You executed them.”

She gave a subtle nod, unconsciously agreeing. “Cowley wanted me to leave them to him. I wanted to be sure they couldn't hurt me again,” she whispered. “I couldn't admit that, not to him, not even to myself. I just wanted to know they couldn't get me again,” she repeated softly.

He smiled warmly at her, letting her see his understanding, absorbing his support. “You only ever killed bad guys, Maggie.”

She gave a strangled laugh. “Yeah. For other bad guys.” The laughter died in her eyes. “And for a lot of money.” She shook her head. “No, don't pretend I'm some kind of vigilante, Ray,” she said, her expression solemn. “I didn't do it for altruistic reasons.”

He looked down at the hand he held in his own, his fingers brushing gently over her knuckles. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But you knew when to stop.”

The sound of the door being opened startled them, as Murphy entered, closely followed by Cowley. He took in the tableau of Maggie and Doyle, sitting closely together, still holding hands, without comment. Something in his eyes made Doyle stand, although he did not release Maggie's hand.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding.

Cowley looked pained, his lips tightly compressed. Behind him, Murphy stood with a face carefully set.

“Bodie.” Cowley said, the one word filled with tension.

 

 

“Where's Daniel?” The blonde woman looked out through the net curtains, scanning the street.

“He went to check on some hotels, thought he'd got some leads.” The dark haired man sat in the arm chair, one foot resting across his knee as he read the morning newspapers.

“So what's keeping him?”

His sigh was masked by the rustling of the paper. “I don't know. It is rush hour in the middle of the City. Maybe he's gone on somewhere else?”

“When do we make the call?”

He threw the paper aside, giving up any chance of reading it. “Look, why all the questions? It's nearly finished. Nearly over.”

She kept her sullen watch out over the street. “Then what happens?”

“What do you mean? We get on with our lives, that's what.”

“What if Cowley....”

He stood suddenly and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn to him. “Look, Cowley can't touch us. We want him to hand over a dead woman. There's nothing he can do. And if he tries, he'll be the one in the firing line. Faking a death, covering up murders, hiding a killer. It'll destroy him and CI5. He won't allow that.”

He willed her to stop questioning, not wanting to betray his own disquiet. The plan had started so simply, but over the last few weeks, the pace had picked up so much that he had suddenly realised that it wasn't a game. What had started out as a kind of exercise was turning into something he didn't want to name, something he wasn't entirely comfortable with.

“Luke.” A woman's voice called him from the doorway. He turned and faced his mother, tall, elegant and still attractive, even in her late 50s. She was the one he couldn't let down, not after everything that had happened to her. She needed him.

“It's time to telephone Cowley,” she said.

He nodded. “Debbie's just watching out for Daniel,” he explained, seeing the wary look his mother aimed at the back of the blonde's head.

“Daniel is quite capable of looking after himself, I'm sure,” she said archly. “Now, we'll need to bring our visitor in. Doubtless Cowley will insist on proving we hold him.”

Luke nodded. “Yes, mother.” He turned to glance at Debbie once more. “Sit down, will you? This is no time to start getting nervous.” Sullenly, she did as she was told, refusing to meet the gaze of the older woman, who remained in the doorway, watching her carefully.

Mrs. Abigail Peterson, mother of Luke Peterson, was a formidable woman. Under normal circumstances, Debbie would have despised a man so under the thumb of his own mother, but Abigail Peterson was no normal pushy parent. There was a coldness to her that unnerved even Debbie, who was more than capable of sociopathic callousness herself.

Luke returned, guiding a slow moving Bodie in front of him, still hooded. A quick jerk of his head was all that was required to bring Debbie to her feet, drawing the curtains in the room. Satisfied there were no distinguishing features around the sparsely decorated room, Luke roughly brought Bodie to the armchair, with his back facing the window, pushing him down into the seat. Bodie sat down quickly, the seat of the chair connecting with the back of his knees forcing him to sit back or fall. Once he was satisfied Bodie was settled, another look towards his mother made her move to stand behind Bodie, out of his field of vision, before Luke removed the hood from Bodie's head. Underneath the hood, he was blindfolded as an added precaution. Bode sat rigidly still as the blindfold was removed, blinking in the dim light that was still too bright for his light sensitive eyes. Luke didn't miss the glittering hate in the midnight blue depths.

“You're remarkably quiet,” he said, meeting the glare with a look of amusement.

“It's the company I'm keeping,” Bodie snarled. “Plus I'm fed up of being some bitch's pin cushion.”

A confused look flashed across Luke's face, telling Bodie a different side to the story. “You going to tell me you didn't know?” he mocked.

Luke's eyes flickered to his mother, standing behind Bodie. He could read nothing in her impassive face. She was capable of it, he knew. So he didn't bother denying what Bodie had said.

“If your boss plays his cards right, you won't have to put up with it any longer,” he said instead.

Bodie gave a grunt of disbelief. “My boss doesn't make deals.”

A sharp clip across the back of his head brought the blonde woman to his attention once more. Far too keen to use her fists, she was, he thought to himself, when the ringing in his ears had stopped. He didn't miss the disapproving look on the face of the dark haired man either. Someone didn't approve of the methods employed, he realised.

“He'll deal if he wants to see you again,” she snarled.

“You must be barmy if you think I'm worth anything,” he said with a short laugh. It earned him another cuff across the back of his head. The look he gave her promised revenge, but she ignored it.

“Replacements are expensive,” the man said, and Bodie wondered whether he'd ever heard Cowley say those words himself. “And what we're asking for is worthless.”

He reached for the telephone and dialled a familiar number. Bodie tried to take in his surroundings, looking around for any clue. The mirror opposite him showed him closed curtains, daylight streaming through the gaps. He could see the blonde woman standing to his right, and to his left, he could see the top of someone's head. Salt and pepper, black and white hair, carefully coiffured and cared for. Someone not as tall as the blonde, he guessed, and old enough to be a parent. Putting that together with the look he had seen in the man's eyes when the needles were mentioned suggested a older woman. Which in turn suggested someone who was the real power in the room.

The telephone was abruptly placed to his head. “Make sure you speak to Cowley,” the man hissed.

Stifling his sigh, Bodie curtly told the operator to put him through to Alpha One as a priority call. He could already imagine the ear bashing he was going to be subjected to when all this was over.

Cowley's voice, when it came down the line, was harsh and abrupt. Bodie winced internally, knowing instinctively that something had happened to get the old man's temper flaring.

“Sir,” he began, but the telephone was taken from him, and the man spoke.

“Mr. Cowley. This is a brief call, so don't bother trying to trace it. We have your agent. We want Morgan Draven. We will call back in two hours time for your answer. If you refuse, your agent dies. If you accept, he will be returned to you unharmed and you will receive further instructions.”

Bodie could hear the roar from Cowley as the receiver was returned to the telephone, cutting him off.

“What do you want her for?” he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

The man opposite him smiled slowly. “She's a dead woman, Mr. Bodie. What we do with her is none of your concern.”

“What's she done to you?”

The blonde woman stepped around the chair to face him, bringing her hand, together with the gun she was holding, down hard on his face. He reeled, dazed from the blow. Pulling himself back up, he automatically checked his mouth with his tongue and tasted blood from his lip. His teeth seemed to be still intact, he realised gratefully.

“She's a murderer,” she hissed, the pale blue eyes glinting with something like madness.

“She's just doing a job,” he replied, wondering if he could goad them into giving anything away.

She raised her hand to hit him again, but the man caught her arm. She struggled ineffectively against him.

“Luke!” Bodie recognised the woman's voice as the one who had injected him. He resisted the temptation to turn and look at the real adversary. He was surprised then when the woman voluntarily walked into his view. He cast a professional eye over her, guessing her age as mid 50s, although she had obviously taken care of herself over the years. The carefully tailored clothing and discreetly expensive jewellery spoke of comfortable wealth.

“Morgan Draven does not concern you, Mr. Bodie. She is simply someone who should have died many years ago. In fact, it would have been better had she never been born.”

Bodie watched the cold, calculating light in the old eyes, and knew that whatever they had planned for Maggie, it wouldn't be quick. Or clean.

Luke let go of the blonde woman, who glared at him defiantly. He reached for the blindfold again, carefully and efficiently wrapping it around Bodie's eyes once more. Bodie stifled his annoyance. He felt firm hands grip his upper arms, guiding him to his feet. Once standing, the same hands offered reassurance as he faltered, steering him back the way he had come. A garage, Bodie guessed, attached to the house.

“Wait.” The older woman's voice brought them to a halt. “Let Debbie take him. I need to speak to you.” Bodie sensed the hesitation. There was something strange going on between these three, he knew. They seemed unlikely allies. He felt the larger hands leave him, replaced by small fingers that dug into his flesh remorselessly. He was pushed roughly from the room.

Luke watched Debbie lead Bodie away, not trusting the menacing look she gave the blindfolded man. When the door closed behind them, he turned to his mother. “She can't be trusted,” he began.

“Why do you care what happens to Bodie, or anyone else who protects the woman who killed your father?”

Luke sighed heavily, knowing he was being manipulated, but powerless against the pressure his mother put on him. He had been 15 years old when he stood beside his mother as they laid his father in the ground. His father's best friend, who followed him into death a mere month after the funeral, had told him he was now the man of the household. It was a task he had taken seriously, performing his duty to the best of his abilities. It had cost him countless relationships; he sometimes wondered if it would cost him his sanity. Even as he had pushed himself and his career, he could not escape the shadow of his mother. She clouded everything. When she had found out that Morgan Draven was still alive, she had become driven, determined to destroy the woman responsible for the death of her husband. And he had been dragged into it, remorselessly reminded, whenever he had questioned her, of what the Magpie had done.

“Bodie is just doing his job. Just like I do,” he said with weary resignation.

She snorted. “A mercenary? What is he doing working for the government anyway? How can he be trusted?”

“Cowley isn't a fool, mother. He wouldn't have Bodie if he couldn't be trusted.”

His mother's eyes were cold. “Don't you dare speak of Cowley like he's something to be respected!” she hissed.

A loud bang from the garage distracted them. As Luke opened the door, more sounds of scuffles and muted curses could be heard. Rushing to the garage, he found Bodie lying on his side, still handcuffed and hooded. Debbie stood over him, her eyes glittering with malicious pleasure as she kicked him cruelly in the ribs. Bodie gasped as he absorbed the blow.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Luke snarled, grabbing the woman before she could land another blow on the prostrate man.

“It's only what he deserves!” she yelled, angry at being denied.

Luke ignored her, bending to run his hands over Bodie, checking for injuries. He helped him to a sitting position before pulling off the hood, wincing at the already purpling jaw. He used the hood to wipe the blood leaking from Bodie's cut mouth.

“Come on, mate. Let's get you up,” he urged gently, easing Bodie to his feet and guiding him to the chair. Once satisfied Bodie would not fall off, he turned back to Debbie, barely containing his anger.

“You're no better than Magpie!” he snarled. “Get out of here!”

Debbie stormed out of the garage, slamming the door behind her. Luke turned back to Bodie, checking him over once more. Ruefully, he reached for the ropes.

“I don't trust you enough to leave these off, mate, but I won't put them around your chest. I don't think she's broken anything, but you're going to be sore.” He bound Bodie's feet to the chair again, and tied his hands with the cord, not trusting the handcuffs on their own.

“You're wrong, you know.”

He looked up to the blindfolded man, wondering what the quiet words meant.

“About Magpie,” Bodie continued, as if sensing his confusion. “She would never do anything like this.”

Bodie flinched as the final knot was tightened with more force than absolutely necessary. “What would you know about it?” Luke asked, his voice hard. He stalked away, turning back only when he reached the door.

“She killed my father,” he said softly, not knowing why it mattered to him that Bodie understood. “She killed Debbie's father as well. And others.”

“Killing her won't bring them back.” Bodie knew the platitude was meaningless, but depended on it to draw the man out further.

“We know that. It's not about revenge. It's about justice.”

Bodie heard the words and recognised them as something Luke had been taught rather than a conclusion he had arrived at for himself. “Whose justice?” he persisted.

“You tell me,” Luke threw the question back at him. “Do you think cop killers should go unpunished?”

Leaving Bodie with that thought, he left the garage, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

 

Maggie listened to Cowley's terse summary without flinching, while Doyle remained silent, his arms folded across his chest.

“What time was this?” he said, the quietness of his voice at odds with the waves of tension radiating from him.

Cowley eyed him warily. “About twenty minutes ago,” he replied.

“Any leads on that Special Branch bloke?” he asked.

“Anson's looking into it now.” Cowley gestured for Murphy's attention. “Go and check what the situation is,” he ordered. Murphy gave a curt nod and left the room.

“Just tell them yes,” Maggie said at last, her voice calm and controlled. Cowley watched her carefully, checking the impassive features for any sign of emotion.

“We don't make deals,” Doyle snapped. Cowley glanced at his agent. Doyle's face showed his conflicting emotions; his worry about his partner, his impotent rage.

Magpie seemed to ignore Doyle's comment, her eyes fixed on Cowley. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Look – we gave them a good run for their money. But it's over.” Her voice was soft, persuasive. “Get Bodie back,” she said firmly.

Doyle turned away abruptly, running his fingers through his hair. “Shit.” His frustration exploded in one harsh word. The broad shoulders were tight with barely suppressed rage.

Maggie swallowed, looking down at her hands, gripping the chair back tightly. To Cowley, she suddenly seemed very young, very tired, and frightened.

“Maggie,” he said softly, waiting until the violet eyes raised and met his gaze. He smiled reassuringly. “We can't just hand you over.”

Her eyes hardened resolutely. “Yes, you can,” she said firmly. “I told you at the start, I'm not risking anyone on my behalf. It's over. I give up. Let them have me.”

“It's not that simple,” Doyle said, his voice harsh with anger. “We can't rely on them handing Bodie over even if we were to trade.” He turned back to her, his face tight with emotion. “Have you thought what they'll do to you if they get hold of you?” he demanded.

In contrast, her expression was calm, although Cowley could see the price of her self-control. She was rigid, every muscle taut. The pulse in her throat was visible, hard and fast.

“Yes,” she said, a slight note of fear shaking her restraint. “I'm banking on it.” She lifted her chin defiantly, meeting Doyle's glare with clear eyes. “They'll keep me alive long enough for you to rescue me.”

Cowley cleared his throat. Maggie's candid gaze turned to him. He held her look, the grey eyes sad but unrelenting. She read the silent message in his eyes, and she paled.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Of course.” She seemed to sag in the chair.

“Doyle, would you step outside?” Cowley's tone belied the fact he expected his request to carry the weight of an order.

“Now just wait one ….” Doyle bristled, caught by the defenceless look in Maggie's eye and the calculating glint in Cowley's.

“Now, 4-5.” Cowley barked sharply.

The two man glared at each other, Doyle in open insubordination, and Cowley daring him to make a move. Unwilling to leave Maggie alone with Cowley in this mood, Doyle hesitated. Then he caught something in the old man's look, something he knew from experience meant that not everything was as it seemed.

He nodded reluctantly. “Okay,” he said, his anger under control again. “But I'll be in that observation room.” He stabbed a finger to the mirrored wall behind them, making his warning clear in his wide green eyes. With a last look at Maggie, he stalked from the room.

Cowley sighed when they were finally left alone. He got up and locked the door to the room, his limp more pronounced in his weariness. Maggie followed his movement with her eyes.

“You won't rescue me,” she said, her voice strangely neutral, no note of accusation in the calm tone. “If you trade me for Bodie, you won't risk more men by trying to rescue me.”

He sat down opposite her again, regarding her with a sad expression. “This is not the way we planned things, Maggie,” he said softly.

“Trade me for Bodie,” she insisted, ignoring the sympathy in his look.

“Doyle's right. Whatever it is they've got planned for you, it's not going to be pleasant.”

“I know that. But there's no alternative.”

“There is,” he said quietly. He looked away from her, and reached into his coat pocket. She watched as he removed his Webley revolver and placed it on the table between them. Only then did he raise his eyes to meet hers.

“They never stipulated that you be alive for the trade,” he said, his voice soft and silken.

They stared at each other as long seconds ticked by. The shock in her eyes did not fade as she took in his words. He saw her bite down on her lip as it began to tremble, trying to control her emotions. Her eyes, now large and starting to mist with unshed tears, looked down at the gun on the table.

“That's true,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up quickly from the gun, tears spilling from her eyes as she met his gaze again. A dull thudding from the mirrored wall announced Doyle's reaction to the suggestion. She ignored it.

“What do you say to that, girl?” Cowley asked gently.

She swallowed, and he hated himself for the fear he saw in her pale face. But she would not look away.

“Bodie's worth more than me,” she said, her voice shaking. She swallowed again and took a deep breath. “You want me to do it?” she said, her voice stronger. She started to reach for the gun.

“No,” Cowley picked up the Webley before she could reach it. He stood and approached her slowly. “I think, in the circumstances...” His voice trailed off.

She nodded curtly. “Okay. Then do it.”

“Maggie....”

“Just do it!” she snapped. “There's nothing else to say.” She stood quickly, turning the chair and sitting back down on it so her back faced Cowley.

Long seconds ticked by, Maggie's body trembling as she held herself straight backed in the chair. Finally, Cowley reached forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. She flinched at the contact.

“I'm sorry, lassie,” he said gently.

“Just...” She hesitated.

“What?” he prompted.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Nothing. Do it.”

He turned slightly so he could see her profile. She closed her eyes tightly, the lashes damp with tears. He saw her wince as she heard the sound of the hammer being pulled back. She held her breath, waiting.

She was not going to back down.

“I'm sorry, Maggie,” Cowley said again.

She bit back on her reply as she heard the sound of the hammer being eased off. She whirled around on the chair. “You ...” The word came out on a long held breath.

Cowley moved away from her, unlocking the door, grateful for the excuse to look away from the accusation in her eyes.

“I had to be sure you wouldn't change your mind,” he said, turning an impassive face back to her. “You need to be absolutely certain of what's going to happen. I had to be sure you knew what you were getting yourself into.”

The door flew open as Doyle charged in, distracting both of them. “What the hell...!” he snarled.

“That's enough, 4-5,” Cowley snapped sharply. “It was a test. Nothing more.” He returned the Webley to his shoulder holster. “Now. We use our time to get more information on what we're dealing with. And when they call us back in,” he glanced at his watch. “Ninety minutes' time, we give them their answer.” He brushed past Doyle, leaving them alone in the room without another word or glance.

Doyle barely moved as Maggie stood up, picking up her chair and hurling it across the room. She stood, her breathing ragged, her rage still coursing through her. Without a word, Doyle crossed the room to take the trembling woman in his arms.

 

 

An hour later, a far more controlled Magpie lay sprawled over the settee in the rest room. Doyle sat watching her closely, his ankle resting across the knee of his other leg. The foot tapped restlessly in the air. Maggie pretended not to notice. Doyle came swiftly and gracefully to his feet as Cowley swept into the room.

Cowley spared them a glance over the top of his glasses before turning his attention to the folder in his hands. He placed it on the desk, as Doyle stepped nearer to look over the contents.

“Daniel Mason. Detective in Special Branch,” Cowley announced, sifting though the few pieces of paper Murphy had managed to accumulate. “So far, we've managed to keep his death quiet. Not even his bosses know he's dead.”

“What are Special Branch doing after Maggie?” Doyle asked.

Cowley's look was speculative. “As far as we can tell, they weren't,” he said quietly. “No, it seems Mr. Mason was acting under his own initiative.”

“But not working alone.”

“Evidently not,” Cowley replied.

Both men turned as Murphy entered the room. The tall man gave a triumphant grin. “You're not going to believe this.”

“Well, spit it out, man,” Cowley demanded sharply.

Murphy's grin widened. “Mason's girlfriend works for CI5. She's a switchboard operator.”

Doyle's eyes widened. “The radio messages we were getting,” he said, realisation dawning.

Cowley slid his glasses off, twirling them in his fingers. “Where is the girl now?” he asked.

“Not due to start her shift for another hour,” Murphy replied. “One of the other girls noticed the photo and recognised him. She doesn't know why we have his picture, but she thought she should mention it, in case it was important.”

“Excellent. Good girl,” Cowley's smile was triumphant. He gestured to Murphy with the hand holding his glasses. “I want you to grab her as soon as she comes in, before she gets a chance to talk to anyone else, and especially before she can make contact with anyone outside.”

Murphy gave a nod and disappeared again. Cowley collected together the contents of the file on Mason and glanced at his watch. “We'd better move to my office,” he said. Concern flashed briefly over his face as he looked at Maggie, before his expression fixed into a controlled mask. “We'll be getting a call soon.”

She met his gaze and nodded briefly before standing up. She smoothed down her top, her hands steady. Cowley gave her an appraising look, noting her calm manner. She had herself well under control, he noticed. There was no sign of nerves or trepidation. He gave a nod of approval and gestured for them to leave ahead of him.

In his office, he took his customary seat, calmly ordering Doyle to pour them all a malt whisky. The ticking of the clock sounded loud in the silence.

“What else have we got on Mason?” Doyle asked, unwilling to maintain that painful silence.

Cowley gave him a look over the top of his glasses. “Very little. Betty is pulling his file from central.”

“Maybe the girlfriend can give us more,” Doyle offered.

“That's what I'm counting on,” Cowley replied dryly. “But in the meantime.” He unlocked one of the drawers in his desk and retrieved a black box. “We take no chances.” He opened the box, revealing two bugs and a tracking device. He flicked the switches to check it was working before removing one of the bugs from the black foam casing. “We'll double-bug you. Hopefully, they won't think to check. Or if they do, it'll be late enough to give us an idea of your whereabouts.”

“They're unlikely to miss a bug,” Maggie said at last, her first comment in a long time.

“Perhaps,” Cowley conceded. “But we'll try it anyway.” He passed the two bugs to Doyle, leaving him to put them on Maggie. He watched as Maggie stood, turning one way and the other as Doyle tried to find the best position to place them. He averted his eyes as Maggie adjusted her top, allowing Doyle access to her bra. He placed the bug carefully inside the cup. Cowley wondered at the intimacy. Doyle fished out his Swiss Army knife, dropping to his knees and taking up the edge of Maggie's jeans. Using the small scissors, he carefully put a small cut in the seam and worked the bug into the gap, feeding it through the narrow seam until he was sure it was secure. Cowley gave a nod of approval at the hiding places.

The ringing of the telephone shattered the silence.

 

 

“He's agreed,” Luke said, a note of surprise in his voice. He looked up, seeing the amazement on Debbie's face, and the calculating look of triumph on his mother's.

“Then we'd better get our guest ready,” his mother said.

“What about Daniel?” Debbie interrupted.

Abigail gave her a cold look. “What about him?”

“We should wait for him.” Debbie's chin lifted defiantly.

“I have no intention of delaying things just because your brother got called away,” Abigail said smoothly.

“And we just hand Bodie over then, do we?” There was a challenging note in Debbie's voice.

Luke felt a chill run up his spine as he saw his mother considering Debbie's unspoken suggestion.

“If we double-cross Cowley now, he'll come after us for certain,” he said quickly, wishing he had control of the situation. “Bodie's just doing his job, just like any of us,” he insisted.

His mother's cold, appraising gaze made him fight to stop his embarrassment showing. He hated the way she made him feel, so clumsy and inadequate, a poor substitute for his father. Not for the first time, he cursed his ridiculous sense of loyalty that prevented him from severing his ties with her. She could turn on the fragile, defenceless widow act in a second, he knew. And although he knew it was a lie, he was no more immune to it than anyone else.

“I'll get Bodie,” he said at last, turning away from the women. The sooner Bodie was back with CI5, the happier Luke would be.

That would leave only Magpie to deal with. Luke found he did not really want to think about what would happen when they finally had Magpie in their power.

 

 

Bodie blinked at the sudden sunlight as the blindfold was removed. He stumbled as he was pushed forward, the tall man at his side never relinquishing his firm grip. He had been led from the garage, blindfolded and hooded again, and pushed into the back of a car. He had lost count of the twists and turns in the roads, his senses alert for any noises to indicate his whereabouts. The driver had obviously thought of that, the radio playing loud enough to mask any hint of sounds from outside. The sound of only one car door, and one set of footsteps, suggested only the one guard, but his instincts told him there were others nearby.

The man beside him wore a ski mask, although he had not seemed too concerned about hiding his features back at the house. He had wondered why they did not seem bothered to hide themselves, wondering if it meant they did not intend letting him survive. But the explanation given to him as Luke had got him ready for the car journey told him they considered their identities immaterial. They fully expected to get away with it.

As Luke pushed him forward, his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, and he saw the dark red Granada parked opposite. Cowley's car. Keen eyes looked around but he could find no sign of the controller. Luke pulled him to a halt, stepping aside, but keeping the Browning trained carefully on him. Bodie watched as Doyle got out of the car, masking his surprise as Ray pulled Maggie from the back-seat. He took in the defeated slump of her shoulders, the anger in her eyes, and the handcuffs holding her hands behind her back. Doyle took a firm grip of her upper arm, leading her towards them. She looked keen to shake him off, not wanting even that brief contact. Bodie knew a sudden lurch of dread as he realised the trade was going to happen after all.

“Are you alone?” Luke's voice carried across the empty hanger.

“Just like we agreed,” Doyle confirmed. “Are you all right, Bodie?”

“Fine, mate.” He tried to keep his voice light and unconcerned.

Luke gestured with his gun, drawing their attention to a nearby rooftop. Sunlight reflected back brightly from something in the distance, and they knew without being told there was a sniper watching them.

“No grand gestures,” Luke warned.

“So how are we going to do this?” Doyle called out, addressing the man beside Bodie again.

“You take your friend, you leave her with me. That's it.”

“Simple as that?”

“Exactly,” Luke agreed.

“And what happens to her?” Doyle demanded.

“That is not your concern. Or any of CI5.”

Doyle gave a nod. “Here.” He threw the keys for the cuffs towards them, landing just a few inches from Bodie's feet. “I don't suppose you want her hands free.”

Luke smiled underneath the ski mask. “Not particularly,” he agreed.

“If you've got any sense, you'll keep out of the way of her feet as well,” Doyle added. He turned to Magpie, giving her a slight push in their direction. The look she gave him was pure poison. “Off you go,” he said quietly, his words barely audible to the men standing a few feet away.

She turned away from him, her chin rising defiantly as she walked towards Bodie and Luke, affecting an air of unconcern. When she started her walk, Luke reached behind Bodie and unlocked the handcuffs. Bodie brought his hands in front of him, massaging his wrists and fixing Luke with a warning look.

Doyle watched the scene, his face hard with the part he was playing and the tension he felt. He had not been comfortable handcuffing Maggie, but she had insisted, determined to give the impression that she was not a willing participant to the trade. She had maintained that the kidnappers, whoever they were, would not be so pleased with themselves if they thought she was there of her own free will. Reluctantly, Doyle had agreed. The whole situation was a powder keg waiting to go off; there were too many variables – relying on getting information while the kidnappers amused themselves with Maggie, relying on them keeping her alive long enough to be rescued, on them feeling themselves secure now they had achieved their objective. Doyle was too aware that it could all go horribly wrong and they would simply find Maggie dead – if they ever found her at all.

No matter how determined Cowley was to catch everyone involved in this, willing even to risk Maggie in an attempt to keep them occupied while CI5 hunted them down, Doyle knew that there was a very real chance that Maggie would be dead by the time that happened. He felt like a Judas, handing her over, despite knowing she was aware of all the risks and had accepted them. It didn't make him feel any better.

Doyle watched as Bodie walked away from Luke, his stride becoming easier as he neared Doyle. He met Magpie half-way, a question in his look.

“Don't ask,” she hissed. “Just fuck off, and quickly.” She refused to look at him, her angry glare focussed on the man in the ski mask.

Bodie gave a nod and continued, meeting up with Doyle. They got into the car without a word, Doyle starting the engine and tyres squealing as they drove away.

Magpie felt her stomach twist at the sudden surge of panic that filled her. She allowed none of it to show as she stood in front of the tall man. She watched impassively as he removed his ski mask. Dark blue, almost purple, eyes met hers, glittering with an emotion she could not place. He held the Browning with the calm assurance of one familiar with guns.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. He gave a half smile. “I'm Luke Peterson.” He waited to see if any recognition flashed in her violet eyes. When none did, he added, “My father was Superintendent Martin Peterson.” He saw the realisation then, quickly replaced with sadness.

“Well. Isn't this a pleasant trip down memory lane.”

He ignored her heavy sarcasm, bending to pick up the keys to her handcuffs. He gave her a cold assessing look up and down, noting the narrowing of her eyes as she tried to gauge his next move. Reaching into a deep pocket, he pulled out a lump of fabric. Shaking it loose revealed it to be a pair of thin overalls, the type used by mechanics. He threw them to the ground in front of her. She felt coldness seep into her veins as she realised what he wanted.

“Bear in mind I don't have to shoot to kill,” he warned, reaching to unlock the handcuffs. He moved away from her quickly and gestured to the overalls. “Strip.”

“You've got to be kidding,” she snapped.

“Do I look like I've got a sense of humour?”

She glared at him. “Do I look like I'm going to give you a show?”

A lip curled in distaste as his gaze swept up and down her. “Believe me, I won't be interested.”

Not bothering to hide her anger, she stripped down to her underwear and reached for the overalls. A discreet cough stopped her. She glared at him as he smiled slowly. “And the rest.”

“Bastard,” she hissed. But she reached for the overalls, using them to hide as much of her as possible as she removed her bra and pants. She knew she had no chance of recovering the tracking device Doyle had placed in her bra.

He waited until she had fastened the overalls before gesturing for her to put her hands behind her back again. Smoothly, betraying his experience in the matter, he slid the cuffs on her wrists, not giving any time for resistance. Satisfied she was secured once more, he kicked her clothes away from them before grabbing her arm and walking her to his car. He pushed her into the back seat with more force than absolutely necessary, before taking the driver's seat and starting the engine. He watched her in the rear view mirror, seeing a nerve twitching in her tightly held jaw and realised she was far more nervous than she appeared. The knowledge did not give him any satisfaction.

He turned his attention to the road, pulling away and driving in silence. They had got this far, he thought. It wasn't much longer, and he would be free. Free from his mother's disapproval, free from the ghost of his father.

Sadly, he realised he had been far happier when he had believed his father had committed suicide all those years ago, hanging himself in his office and leaving a simple note saying, “I'm sorry.” Then his mother had appeared eighteen months ago and told him that not only had his father been murdered, but by one of the world's leading assassins, and someone close to George Cowley, controller of CI5. Luke had few dealings with CI5, but he knew Cowley by reputation; he had not seemed to be the sort of man who would consort with murderers and assassins. But his mother had been adamant, and he knew she was not prone to flights of fantasy.

He cast another look at the woman in the back seat. Her head hung low. She looked tired.

He changed gears harshly. He did not want this, he realised. This was not justice. He had been horrified when Daniel had butchered the woman's dog; had viewed their taunting of her as little more than a surveillance game. But now the reality sat in his back seat. And he knew he was driving her to her death.

But with her death came his freedom. She was an assassin, a murderer, a criminal. No-one to mourn her. No reason to feel remorse or guilt at her death. It would not be murder. It would be execution.

He drove through the country lanes, wondering when he would convince himself.

 

 

Bodie barely waited until the warehouse was out of sight. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

“Not really,” Doyle said, his voice harsh. He snatched up the radio. “4-5 to Alpha One. Parcel delivered.” Doyle's hands held the wheel tightly, his knuckles white with tension.

“Understood, 4-5. Get back here, and fast. We've got the girlfriend.” Cowley's voice was clipped and abrupt.

“Look, I can't believe you've just handed Maggie over to them like that!” Bodie's voice was tense, the Liverpool accent stronger in his anger.

“It wasn't my fucking idea, all right?” Doyle yelled, his temper slipping. Regaining control with difficulty, his breathing heavy, he concentrated on the road ahead. “She insisted,” he continued, when he had calmed slightly.

“They're going to kill her.”

“I know!” Doyle snapped. “Shit!” He slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. “For fuck's sake, Bodie, I know!” He ran his fingers through his hair, frustration and anger radiating in every move. “She knows it as well,” he added, his voice tight with strain. “She's banking on it. Reckons they'll be so glad to have finally got their hands on her, they'll keep her alive long enough for us to try and trace her.”

Bodie was silent, taking in the information. “We've got a dead Special Branch agent who tried to attack her this morning, and his girlfriend back at base. His girlfriend, the CI5 radio operator,” Doyle continued, deftly guiding his car through the traffic, never lifting his foot from the accelerator. Bodie swore softly under his breath. “I know,” Doyle agreed. “It's fucking thin, Bodie, but it's all we've got to go on.” He glanced at the tracking device propped in the car's ashtray. The bleep had not moved since they had driven away. He turned it off with a growl of frustration and threw it in the back of the car.

“Nothing?”

“Not moving,” Doyle replied, his temper barely under control. “He must have stripped her.”

“He's a strange one. Name's Luke.”

“Yeah? What else you got?”

Bodie raised an eyebrow and gave a sigh. “They reckon they're untouchable. If Cowley makes one move to try and find any of them, they're going public with what they know. Everything about Cowley being Maggie's Godfather, how he covered up her surviving the attack – everything.”

“Covered up her killing the coppers who were investigating her father, you mean?” Doyle added.

Bodie regarded his partner's profile for a few seconds before replying. “You know about that, then?”

“Yeah. When did you?”

“When they told me,” he admitted. “The other bloke -”

“Daniel Mason,” Doyle supplied.

“Yes, I heard them saying something about a Daniel. They don't know he's dead.”

“Cowley's kept it under wraps.”

“There's a woman back there, looks like his sister.” Bodie gave Doyle a wry look. “Better hope for Maggie's sake they don't find out.”

“Yeah, well, we've got a lot to hope for, mate,” Doyle said with a sigh.

 

 

Betty signalled for Bodie and Doyle to go straight into Cowley's office, picking up the telephone as soon as they arrived. “He'll be along shortly,” she said, dialling a number. They heard her announcing their arrival as the door closed behind them.

“You okay?” Doyle belatedly realised he hadn't found out what condition his partner was in. He noticed bruising around his jaw and a painful looking split lip.

“Fine,” Bodie lied amicably. “I'd got one of them dosing me up with tranquillisers while another one delighted in making me her own personal punch bag.”

“Don't tell me some woman managed to resist your charms?”

“Two of 'em,” Bodie admitted. “Not that they were normal women,” he added quickly.

Cowley burst into the room, curtailing further comments. “Bodie, what have you got?”

“I was taken from my apartment last night, sir. Two men, one woman.”

Cowley threw a photograph across the desk at him. He caught it easily. Daniel Mason stared back at him. “That was one of them, sir.”

“Daniel Mason,” Cowley growled. “We've got his girlfriend downstairs. Turns out every message sent through the radios to you since you were assigned to protect Magpie went through her. She even left messages for other colleagues to contact you with information, saying I had requested it.” Cowley was tight lipped with rage, his patience never long with traitors of any kind, but especially those within his own organisation. “What else?”

“The other man was tall, dark-haired, around 30. Answered to the name Luke. There's two women – a blonde, looks like Mason's sister; and an older woman. Didn't get a name for her, but I'd guess she was old enough to be either one's mother. Looked in her 50s, greying black hair. Very well dressed.” Bodie finished his report.

Cowley continued rifling through the file in his hands. Doyle noticed there was far more in there now than there had been that morning. “Yes, there's a sister. A twin. Deborah.” Another photograph was slid out of the file and held out for Bodie's inspection.

Bodie viewed the picture and gave a curt nod. “That's her,” he confirmed.

“Also in Special Branch,” Cowley announced. He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There's no official investigation into Magpie. Whatever these two were doing, they were doing it alone.”

“They know all about her, sir,” Bodie said. He explained quickly everything his kidnappers had told him, everything they planned to do if Cowley did not leave them to deal with Magpie unimpeded. Cowley's lips tightened as he listened to the threats, his grey eyes flashing furiously.

“So they think they can hold me to ransom, do they?” he snarled.

“They're relying on you wanting to keep the good name of CI5.” Bodie agreed.

Cowley sat down in his chair heavily, suddenly looking old and tired. “Aye, they would,” he said softly. He looked up sharply, shrugging off the tiredness suddenly. “Well, they can think again. We're not the only agency to have employed Magpie. And as this isn't an official action against her, they'll find more than CI5 anxious to silence them before they let anything slip.” He stood up quickly, replacing his glasses. “You two, come with me,” he ordered. “Mason's girlfriend may help us identify the rest of your kidnappers, 3-7.”

Bodie and Doyle followed close on Cowley's heels, the old man's optimism contagious. He hadn't written Magpie off yet. While there was life, there was hope.

 

 

Maggie was dragged from the car as soon as it was parked in the garage. She kept her face carefully neutral, not betraying any of the fear she felt coiling in her gut. The garage was large, spacious, with enough room for three cars. Adding to the impression of space was the emptiness of the room. There was none of the usual clutter to be found in a garage. Nothing, in fact, except for a wooden chair, one rack of metal drawers on wheels, and one wall covered in a network of bars, like a climbing frame. A blonde woman approached her, her face twisted with hatred . Before Maggie could react, the woman backhanded her viciously, grabbing a fistful of her hair as she faltered and using it to drag her upright. Dazed from the blow, she was helpless when a hand clamped around her throat.

“That's enough!” Luke grabbed Debbie's hand, forcing her to let go of Maggie. He faced down the furious woman as Maggie coughed and fought for breath, blinking away the pinpoints of light that had begun to haze her vision.

Debbie's eyes narrowed in anger as Luke dragged Maggie to the bars on the wall, quickly uncuffing one hand and attaching the cuff to one of the bars. He dragged another pair of cuffs from his back pocket and attached them first to her other wrist and then another bar, leaving her securely bound to the wall, her arms outstretched and her back to the room. Maggie eyed him suspiciously but did not struggle.

“Where's Daniel?” he asked, ignoring her now she was secured.

Debbie scowled. “Still no sign of him,” she admitted. “Your mother wanted to see you when you got back.”

Luke hesitated, reluctant to leave Maggie alone with Debbie, guessing what the blonde woman would do as soon as she had the opportunity. He could not allow himself regrets now though, he realised. He had to see it through, even if he didn't have to participate. The promise to not take part did nothing to assuage his guilt as he turned his back on them and left.

Maggie braced herself at the slow sound of footsteps behind her. She did not flinch when her head was dragged back roughly by her hair, leaving her neck at an unnatural angle as she looked into cold grey eyes.

“We'll just have to entertain ourselves while he's away,” Debbie said sweetly. Maggie did not have long to wonder at what she meant before the first punch slammed into her lower back.

 

 

There was a sly, manipulative bitch hiding behind the large brown eyes brimming with tears, Doyle decided. She sniffed decorously into her handful of tissues. The little girl lost routine probably stood her in good stead over the years, he thought. She was pretty enough to get her own way in most things, and obviously, where that had not worked, she had relied on the chivalry of others. But she'd never tried her routine on men like them.

Not that Doyle was immune to such an act. He knew only too well he had fallen for it time and again over the years. But that just meant he had learned a new appreciation of the routine. For instance, not all women cried prettily. Some went red faced and runny nosed. They didn't turn on the waterworks to get their own way because they knew only too well that crying did nothing for their charms.

Doyle had learned to mistrust women who could cry without spoiling their mascara.

Cowley's threat about the Official Secrets Act was not an empty one, but it seemed she doubted that any jury would convict her while she stuck to her story of simply passing on messages she had been given by someone in an official capacity. She maintained that Daniel had been working undercover, that it was all an elaborate plot by the Secret Service to get Cowley to lead them to an international assassin. However, her story did not hold up to the evidence piling against her.

There were telephone records, transcripts of messages, statements from other members of staff – all of which added up to someone who knew very well that what she was doing was illegal. Although she had tried to hide her complicity, she had not been as careful as she thought. She had kept up the act all through the night, despite never being allowed to close her eyes or snatch a moment of rest. The long hours of questioning started to pay off when the façade began to crack. In defence, she had fallen back on the little girl act, relying on it to persuade them that she was nothing more than a dupe fooled by a very good con man.

She did not know that Daniel Mason was dead.

They had alternated, Cowley and Murphy, Bodie and Doyle, together and alone, trying all different angles. Cowley had left when the tears started to flow, leaving Bodie and Doyle. They had not moved when the controller left. Bodie remained leaning against the wall, Doyle toying with a pen while sat in a chair opposite her. She risked a glance at them, trying to gauge the situation.

Doyle looked up to meet Bodie's dark gaze. The longer this took, the greater the danger Maggie was in. It was not a time for patience.

“Do you know what happens to women like you in prison?” Doyle said softly

“Oh, very popular you'll be, in Holloway, love,” Bodie added, his voice silken but no less poisonous for it.

Doyle gave a nasty smile, his green eyes cold. “Yes, they'll be fighting over you, love. Of course, some of them might get the wrong idea.”

“Might view you as competition,” Bodie elaborated.

“They don't like competition. Means they lose ranking. They lose face.”

“And if they lose face,” Bodie's voice was pure poison. “So do you.”

The sobs died down as she watched them in horrified fascination, listening to their soft words.

“Course, you could get lucky. Maybe a friendly warden'll take you under his wing.”

“Or hers,” Bodie amended.

“You might have to service them and a few chosen others, but better that than an entire wing.”

“Or finding boiling water thrown in your face one meal time.”

She jumped at the sound of the door opening. Murphy appeared, fixing her with a cold look of his own.

“You two, Cowley's office right away,” he ordered, standing aside to let them out. Closing the door behind them, he walked slowly to stand opposite the trembling woman, his arms folded across his chest.

“You will tell us, sooner or later,” he said at last. “Trouble is, if it's too late, it won't do you any good.”

She swallowed noisily, suddenly realising that she was out of her depth and there was no way out.


	4. Chapter 4

“Daniel Mason.” Cowley barely glanced up at them as they entered. They had been up all night, grabbing a couple of hours sleep and rest in between questioning the woman. “Daniel and Deborah Mason. I should have recognised the name sooner, but it's a common name.”

Doyle frowned, hearing the self-recrimination in Cowley's voice. “What is it?”

“Their father, Doyle. Detective Inspector Simon Mason.”

Doyle blinked, recognising the name and rifling through his memory to find out from where. His eyes widened. “Maggie killed him.”

The grey eyes fixed on Doyle sharply. “Mason was one of the men responsible for the murder of Maggie's father,” he said carefully. “He was one of the four men who broke in that night and left her for dead. She killed all seven men responsible for the act or for the cover-up. But no-one knew they were murdered. No-one except me and Maggie.”

“Debbie Mason said she's a murderer,” Bodie said carefully.

“Aye,” Cowley agreed. “So how did she know? Her father's death was ruled an accident. He lost control of his car, crashed into a tree.”

“Maggie poisoned his cigarette,” Doyle said, realisation dawning, remembering the bitter confession.

Cowley frowned, piercing Doyle with a hard stare. “Maggie isn't prone to talking about these things, Doyle,” he said sharply. “Not even I know how she murdered all those men. I'm curious what made her confide in you.”

“Well, when we get her back, you can ask her,” Doyle replied, meeting Cowley's glare with a steady look.

“I will,” Cowley said, his voice a gentle promise. “Now,” he said, his tone firmer as he pulled out another photograph from the pile on his desk. “You said the other man was called Luke, Bodie.” He held out the photograph for Bodie's perusal. “Is this the man?”

Bodie looked at the black and white photograph. “That's him, sir,” he said confidently.

Cowley turned the photograph in his hands, staring at the image. “Luke Peterson,” he said, naming the man in the picture. “MI5.”

“MI5?” Bodie exploded in disbelief. “What are they after her for?”

“They're not. Neither are Special Branch. This is not official business. It's a vendetta.” Cowley replaced the picture in the pile, pulling out another one. He regarded this picture carefully, a rueful expression on his face. “Luke Peterson's father was Superintendent Martin Peterson. Found hanged in his office, with a suicide note. Maggie's work again, not that anyone knew that.”

“Looks like they found out,” Bodie said.

“Aye, it does,” Cowley agreed. He looked old.

“How could they have found out?” Doyle asked.

“I don't know,” Cowley replied. He held out the final picture for Bodie to look at. It showed a woman, in her thirties from her appearance, the fashion from twenty years ago. The hair was darker and the face less lined, but Bodie still recognised the woman who had tranquillised him.

“That's her,” he confirmed. He saw the sad look in Cowley's expression. “Who is she?”

“Luke Peterson's mother,” Cowley replied. “She married Martin Peterson, a convenient nine months before Luke was born.” He looked back at the woman smiling back from the photograph. “But there's more to it than that,” he added. He threw the picture back in the pile and sat back in his chair, regarding the two men with glittering eyes.

“Abigail Peterson was already married when she first met Superintendent Peterson. Married to a Detective Sergeant in his station. She fell pregnant to her first husband. Abortions were illegal in those days, and her husband threatened to prosecute her if she destroyed his child. He agreed to let her go once the baby was born, raise the child without knowing who her mother was.”

A cold chill ran through Doyle. Cowley continued. “Shortly after the girl was born, Abigail left her husband with the baby and moved in with Peterson. As soon as the divorce was through, they married.”

“What's this got to do with anything, sir?” Bodie asked, unaware of the story unfolding in front of them, not knowing the information that Maggie had only shared with Doyle as he'd driven her to the safe house.

“Abigail Peterson was Abigail Draven, Bodie,” Cowley said at last. “She's Maggie's mother.”

“Maggie doesn't know that.” Doyle finally found his voice.

“No,” Cowley agreed. “But Abigail does. If she found out Maggie was still alive, she'd put two and two together.”

“She's going to murder her own daughter?” Doyle's voice rose in disbelieving horror.

“Worse than that,” Bodie said, realisation dawning. “Luke doesn't know she's his sister, does he?”

“I doubt it,” Cowley agreed reluctantly. “She wouldn't acknowledge Maggie. She was an unforgiving woman. Cold.”

“Does she know Peterson arranged to murder Draven? Does she know what happened to Maggie?”

Cowley met Doyle's gaze sadly. “She wouldn't care, Doyle.”

“And she's going to get Luke Peterson to murder his own sister,” Bodie said, his voice rising in anger.

Cowley nodded. “Aye, laddie. She'll probably try.”

 

 

Maggie's throat was hoarse. Despite the pleasure her screams obviously brought the psychotic Debbie, the need to prevent detection necessitated gagging her after a few minutes. The gag did not stop the reflexive screams that tore at her throat. Debbie had pummelled Maggie's lower back until she felt as though her insides were on fire. Finally, Debbie had decided to save her energy, and removed the battery from the car parked inside the garage, attaching cables to the terminals. All Maggie had been able to do was try to ensure she didn't bite her tongue as the electricity made her body shudder uncontrollably, the relentless shocks leaving her breathless, her heart pounding loudly in her throat. Despite her attempts, she felt blood filling her mouth from where she had bitten the inside of her cheek and her lip while lost in the uncontrollable jerking from the electricity.

When even that had proved tedious, Debbie moved onto to more direct means again. The small chest of drawers did not hide many tools, but it did contain a short riding crop, the leather tang at the end cut into shreds to cause more damage. Rather than growing tired of the monotonous sweep and crack of the crop against Maggie's back, the sound of the impact and the scarlet of her blood pushed Debbie on, giving her more energy to lay into the blows. The scent of blood filling her nostrils, she smiled unconsciously at the hoarse cries that Maggie could no longer contain.

Luke stood at the back of the garage, his arms crossed in front of him, trying to block the sounds from his mind as he closed his eyes to the scene. Maggie's back was red with blood. The walls and floor were flecked from where the whip had flung the tiny beads of her blood as Debbie raised and lowered it over and over again. Finally growing bored of the repetitive action after more lashes than he could count, Debbie had reached instead for the first bag of salt, grabbing a large handful and rubbing it into the abused flesh of Maggie's back. Maggie had arched, screams muffled by the tea towel that had been thrust in her mouth and tied in place with an old scarf. Almost giggling in unholy delight, Debbie had simply reached for another bag of salt when she had emptied the first bag, and continued the torture.

He opened his eyes and looked to his mother, desperate for some sign of humanity. She did not share the same gleeful expression as Debbie, but there was a kind of relief in her cool gaze. She watched Debbie with quiet approval, and Luke despaired at what he would be expected to do to earn the same look of satisfaction.

Maggie slumped against the handcuffs, the metal cutting into her wrists from where she had fought against the restraints. Blood trickled from the cuts on her wrists, running in slow rivulets down her arms. Debbie watched it with almost scholarly interest, then she reached for a knife.

Luke stifled a cry of complaint, closing his eyes to the sight of the blade being slowly drawn down the outstretched arms, wishing he could close his ears to the animalistic sounds of pain coming from the woman. The blade sliced through the skin, running freely down her arms. She gave another muffled scream and struggled against the restraints as more salt was thrown into the deep cuts.

“Don't you have the stomach for this?” His mother's voice, so near to him, made him jump, opening his eyes in startled surprise. He found himself the recipient of her cool regard. “I would have thought MI5 would have trained you in all methods of obtaining information.”

“What information does she have that we want?” he asked, unable to mask his distaste.

His mother gave him the disapproving look which he was so accustomed to seeing from her. “After everything that she's done, all that she's taken from us – do you deny she deserves this?”

He looked unwillingly at the woman tied to the bars. She was shaking her head, her moans lost in the gag that filled her mouth, almost suffocating her. The thin overalls hung in tatters over her blood stained body. She tried to pull away from the slow track of the blade, scoring deep marks down her arm, but her feet slipped on her own blood, pooling on the floor, and she lost her footing, pulling against the handcuffs again, cutting new gouges in her already lacerated wrists. He didn't know how much more she could take.

He didn't know how much more he could stand.

“Enough.” Debbie whipped around at the sound of Abigail's voice, her face twisted in rage at the interruption. Ignoring the look, Abigail gave a small approving smile. “You don't want to kill her too soon,” she said, her voice a gentle reminder.

Debbie gave a last look at the bleeding Magpie and turned away reluctantly, reaching for a towel to wipe the blood from her hands. “I'll try to contact Daniel,” she said, leaving the garage without a backward glance.

“You do that,” Abigail said to the retreating figure. She gave Magpie the same appraising stare he had seen her give to dirty footprints on her carpet or stains on clothes. Not bothering to hide her distaste, she stepped carefully around the blood spattered floor, avoiding anything that might mar her perfect appearance. She turned back at the door to fix Luke with a cool gaze.

“Don't even think about putting her out of her misery,” she warned in a deceptively soft voice. “I have years of suffering to account for, and I will see it taken out of her hide,” she promised. “Deal with it.” She closed the door quietly behind her, leaving him alone with the battered woman, her laboured breathing the only sound.

He reached for the towel Debbie had used and discarded, running it under the standing tap near the bars. When he stood and looked at her, he saw the large dark blue eyes of Maggie watching him carefully. He reached and loosened the gag from her mouth, pulling the cloth away and throwing it to one side. She breathed slightly easier through her mouth, hissing as he used the wet cloth to wipe away the worst of the blood. Fresh blood tracked down her arms faster than he could wipe from the long cuts Debbie had inflicted. They weren't deep enough to sever the artery, but even so, she was losing a lot of blood. She could not withstand this treatment much longer.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, not knowing how else to answer the accusation in her eyes.

“No you're not,” she replied, her voice hoarse and broken from screaming.

His mouth tightened and he looked away, folding the blood soaked towel to distract himself from the sight of her.

“I didn't think it would be like this,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

“No,” she corrected him, the word carried on a breath. “You just didn't think.”

She saw the guilt in his face, and closed her eyes to him, not interested in his crisis of conscience, far too concerned with the pain threatening to overwhelm her. She rested her head against the bars, feeling the cold of the metal begin to soak through her skin. She felt him walk past her, heard the soft click as he let himself out of the room, and knew she was alone. She gave a shuddering sigh, trying to find a place inside where she could escape the pain.

Pain told her she was alive, she remembered. Pain was not always the enemy. An old voice – curt and clipped, but so familiar to her despite the years that had passed since she had heard it – reminded her; the trick was to not minding the pain.

But now she was too tired, and hurting too much, and in the loneliness of her situation, she could only think, with blinding clarity, that she had been right. Cowley would not risk his men to rescue her. They would not come.

She was alone.

 

 

Bodie entered the interrogation room just as Murphy paused for breath. He'd been regaling the prisoner with more horror stories of women's prisons, watching the pale faced reaction as she absorbed the information. Exchanging a meaningful look, he ignored the woman, leaning into Murphy to whisper a confidence. Murphy's head whipped around, surprise clear in his handsome face. The woman watched the whispered conference with wide eyes, wondering what new terrors awaited her.

“So he's talked?” She heard Murphy's whispered question, shock making his voice slightly louder.

She strained to hear Bodie's answer as he gave a quick nod. “Everything. She was in it up to her neck.” The soft whisper caused her to gasp in astonishment.

The look Murphy gave her was hard and uncompromising. “Well, that changes a few things,” he said, louder, his expression clearly indicating that the gloves were now off.

She stammered. “What?”

“Conspiring to kidnap a CI5 agent.” Murphy shook his head slowly.

“I didn't!” she screamed.

“You would say that,” Bodie said, his face a hard mask.

“Tell us where they are, and we'll consider making you an accessory,” Murphy said, offering no compromise.

“But I didn't do anything!” she pleaded.

“That's not what I've heard,” Bodie said.

She looked from one man to the other, silently begging for some suggestion of leniency. There was none.

“We'll find them eventually,” Murphy promised her. “But if it's too late, you'll stand in the dock with all of them.”

She licked her lips, her eyes large in her pale face.

“If we get there and our agent is safe, then....” Bodie shrugged, letting the implication stand.

She took a deep breath, weighing up her options. She had never dreamed it would end like this. She had been assured nothing could be traced back to her, that once Daniel and his friends had got Magpie, it would be over. Daniel had promised her.

And now it sounded like he was sacrificing her.

“There's a holiday cottage, just outside London,” she said quickly. Bodie stifled a grin as she rattled off the address, running out of the door before Murphy could speak.

Murphy gave her a reassuring smile. “Now that's off your chest, how about a cup of tea?” he asked. He fully expected her to throw it over him as soon as he told her that Daniel was dead.

 

 

Consciousness was slow to return to Maggie, unwilling to return to a reality that only promised more pain and ultimately death. In a stupid, over-confident way she had thought that having already been tortured once, she would know what to expect this time. But that had been seventeen years ago, and fear had blanked a lot of what was happening to her at the time. Now she was older and wiser, too wise in the ways a body worked and how it could be made to work against itself. She had far more knowledge to add to the imagination. She had lost the innocence that had protected her before.

She opened her eyes slowly, instinctively aware that someone was in the room with her, watching her. She raised her head carefully, feeling every movement as a bright, sharp pain cascading through her, and saw Abigail Peterson sat on a high backed wooden chair, legs primly together at the knees, ankles crossed. The perfect posture of a lady.

She regarded the ageing woman dispassionately. She would have been beautiful once, Maggie realised. The woman had the delicate bone structure and fine features that suggested she would have been stunning when she was younger. Not even the coldness of those perfect features detracted from her looks.

“Aren't you going to ask who I am?”

The woman's voice was laden with disgust not even the cultured tones could disguise. Maggie did not answer, not trusting her abused vocal chords to work after what she had put them through.

As if sensing her inability, the woman smiled coldly. “I'm Luke's mother. The wife of the man you murdered.” Hostility flared in the deep brown eyes.

Maggie drew her tongue over her split lips. She did not know how much time had passed, or what day it was. “Eye for an eye,” she croaked.

“Oh spare me the platitudes,” Abigail spat. “You think your father's life was worth my husband's?”

Maggie's eyes widened as understanding crept through her veins like ice. She had simply meant to suggest that their motives were revenge on her for the deaths. It had never occurred to her that they would know anything about the reasons why she had killed them. That this woman should know what had been done to her father – to her – and yet still pursue the vendetta was a shock that Maggie could not hide. Abigail watched the realisation with a cruel smile.

“Oh yes, I know about your father,” she said smoothly. “It took me a while to realise he would never accept any of the promotions available. He could have been much more than just a sergeant. But no. He wanted to keep the human touch.” She sneered, contempt heavy in her voice. “Well, I wasn't going to live like that. Martin promised me more, much more. He was more of a man that your father could dream of being.”

Maggie didn't like the way this woman was talking about her father; she was suggesting some kind of personal knowledge, and Maggie was not comfortable with what that meant. “Peterson wasn't a man,” she said, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper. “None of them were. They were vermin.”

Abigail stood up quickly, reaching for the nearest thing to hand to throw at the bound woman. The towel, still heavy with blood and water, smacked hard into her battered flesh, making her cry out with the sudden pain. It slid down her back, dragging against dried and broken skin, making the blood run fresh again.

“They were smart enough to know an opportunity when they saw one. They knew how to make the best of their situation,” Abigail hissed. “All your father cared about was his precious honour. He actually thought he could make a difference. Like he mattered.” She stalked closer to Maggie, her once beautiful face twisted with hatred. “Men like your father are weak and pathetic. They could never change one single thing. You need power and money to make a difference in this world, and the only ones strong enough aren't going to waste it on anyone weaker.”

Maggie's gaze was cold. Realisation chilled her blood, making even the intense pain she felt fade into the background. “You're my mother,” she said calmly, no emotion in the discovery.

Abigail's features twisted with loathing. “I should have strangled you at birth,” she hissed.

The cold regret did not touch Maggie as it had intended. She was beyond emotional pain. The venom in the woman's words had no power to hurt her. “Figures,” Maggie said. “I knew I had to get my nasty streak from your side.”

Abigail gave a humourless laugh, acknowledging the insult. She stepped away, regarding Maggie with her more customary cool detachment. “I saw you in town, two years ago now. You were dining with Cowley. Of course, I recognised you as soon as I saw you. After that, a few things began to make more sense. It didn't take too much to work out the rest.”

“Good for you,” Maggie croaked with tired sarcasm. “I'm really not interested in how clever you think you are. Who's the blonde psycho?”

Abigail smiled at the description. “You murdered her father, Mason.”

“That murdering rapist son of a bitch?” Maggie's voice, although hoarse, could still convey her disgust. “So Daniel's her brother?”

A frown passed quickly over Abigail's face. “What do you know about Daniel?”

Maggie tried to smile, her lips stretching painfully and pulling against the cuts. “He's dead.”

The cool mask cracked as shock showed on her face. “What?”

A sharp intake of breath came from the door and despite the stinging it caused, Maggie's smile broadened. A staccato rhythm of footsteps sounded as Debbie strode to grab the long black hair, matted with blood and sweat. She yanked Maggie's head back, ignoring the pain that flashed across her face.

“What did you say?” she demanded.

Laughing dark blue eyes looked up at her from a blood stained face. “He's dead,” she repeated. “I shot him myself.”

Debbie stared down at her in disbelieving silence, before giving a howl of fury. She took a firm hold of Maggie's head and banged it down hard against the bar. Maggie felt the sickening blow threaten to split her head open, as her head was smashed against the bar over and over again.

“Stop it!”

She was barely aware of Luke dragging Debbie off her, leaving her sagging against the handcuffs, the only things that kept her upright.

“Stop it!” Luke yelled again as Debbie struggled against him. He threw her aside and stood between her and Maggie.

“She killed my brother.” Debbie's voice was low, the fury barely contained.

“She's trying to provoke you,” Luke said, trying to sound reasonable.

“She killed my fucking brother!” she yelled, reaching for the gun strapped under her arm and drawing it. She held it in one shaking hand, pointed at Luke who maintained his position in front of Maggie.

“Don't be stupid,” he warned. “Look – you'll make her pay,” he promised. “That's why she's here.”

Debbie lowered the gun, but the hate did not diminish in her flashing eyes. “Oh too fucking right she'll pay,” she vowed.

She allowed Abigail to lead her away back into the house. Luke watched warily, waiting until the two women were gone before turning to Maggie. He uncuffed her roughly, not caring about the cry of pain she gave when she hung from one shackled wrist. With impersonal efficiency, he turned her around so she faced into the room. She gave another involuntary moan as her back made contact with the bars, but he did not hesitate as he cuffed her arms back to the bars, leaving her hanging from her wrists again.

He wiped the blood staining his clothes ineffectually, only managing to spread the stain further. Finally, he looked at her, noting the weary resignation in her dark eyes.

“Did you really shoot her brother?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said simply, not bothering to prevaricate.

“Shit,” he swore softly, rubbing his temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand.

She saw the tiredness in his face, the dark smudges under his eyes betraying him. “Did you think you could control all this?” she asked, her voice strangely gentle despite the hoarseness.

He met her gaze, weariness prematurely ageing him. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Never mind,” she said quietly. He bristled, expecting sarcasm, but the eyes regarded him showed only sympathy and understanding. It was an unwelcome surprise. “What else did you hear?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, frowning. He had only walked in at the point where his mother had been telling Magpie that Debbie's father was Mason. He remembered Maggie's comment. “What did you mean about Debbie's father being a rapist and a murderer?”

Maggie's dark blue eyes, almost violet in colour, regarded him carefully. She could see he did not know anything about what had happened, nothing about her father, or their mother. She had only just met him, and she owed him no loyalty, but she found she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. He was her brother, she realised. And he did not know it. Her younger brother. Looking into his eyes was like looking into her own. It was her place to protect him.

“Nothing,” she said gently. “I didn't mean anything.”

He looked unconvinced. “There's something going on here I don't understand,” he admitted unwillingly. He had wanted to hate her; he had started this whole thing based on hating her. But it seemed impossible to think of her killing purely for pleasure. It did not fit with what he had found out about Magpie, and it certainly did not fit with her behaviour.

She opened her mouth to reassure him, but a loud noise from upstairs startled her into silence. The unmistakable sound of a gun.

 

 

Bodie had parked his Capri further down the road, Murphy in his Cortina behind him. Cowley got out of the passenger seat of Murphy's Cortina before the engine had stopped running. Bodie had to admit, for an old guy with a limp, Cowley could move when the need arose. The four men gathered at the mouth of the driveway leading to the holiday home address Mason's girlfriend had given.

“We know there's three in there,” Cowley said, his dark eyes moving from one agent to another. “One is Special Branch, another is MI5 – and we know better than underestimate either one, do I make myself clear?” The Scottish burr took a hardened edge as he growled the warning.

“What about the mother?” Bodie asked.

Cowley's mouth tightened. “Aye, don't underestimate her either. She's a snake, and don't forget it. We've got to move quickly and take them out at once. Give them one chance and they'll kill Maggie.”

“Do you want survivors?” Murphy asked the question in his soft accent, a calm look in his blue eyes declaring he had no strong feelings either way on the issue.

Cowley's hesitation was out of character. “Do what you have to do,” he said quietly at last. “We'll deal with the fallout from this later.” He jerked his head in final command, and the four of them made their way up the gravel drive, keeping to the carefully maintained grass verges. All four kept a watchful eye on the house, making sure no-one was watching. With a quick gesture, Cowley indicated that he and Murphy would go round the back. Bodie nodded in understanding and prowled, cat-like, to the front, Doyle gliding alongside him like a shadow in the early afternoon sun.

There was no movement from inside the house. Bodie glanced at the large garage attached to the house, remembering the smells and sensations of his own confinement. The dark blue Rover parked in front of the garages was familiar to Bodie as well, recognising it as the one that had tailed him the previous day. A hand on the bonnet revealed it was cold. It must have been parked for over an hour at least.

He kept a careful eye out as Doyle picked the locks on the front door, slowly pushing the door open a fraction and sliding the lock picks back in his pocket as he retrieved his gun from its holster. The silent communication between them, consisting of no more than eye contact and a subtle nod, completed the job. Doyle listened carefully at the door before pushing it wider. He slid through the gap, closely followed by Bodie. There was no-one in sight. They made their way silently through the quiet house, waiting for some indication of habitation, when a muffled cry from one direction led them to a large kitchen and breakfast room.

A movement to one side made Bodie spin quickly, moving to cover his partner's back, but it was Murphy and Cowley, having made their way from the back of the house. A subtle shake of the head indicated that they had not seen anyone either. Bodie nodded towards the kitchen, indicating a door that probably led to the garage. The remains of breakfast littered the wooden table. Three people. Seeing the layout of the house, Bodie could recognise the direction from which he had been led blindfolded to and from where he had been held. A quick gesture from Murphy indicated he would check upstairs. Climbing the staircase carefully, the tall man hid in the shadows, his footfalls silent on the carpet.

Cowley indicated for Doyle and Bodie to stay with him, moving through the rest of the house noiselessly. The lounge was bathed in golden sunlight. Bodie recognised the room where he had been brought to telephone Cowley.

“This is the place,” he whispered. “They brought me in here to 'phone you.”

Cowley nodded briefly, then all three men were startled by the sound of voices approaching. Bodie hid beside the door to the lounge, while Doyle crouched behind the chest of drawers near the door. Cowley ducked beneath the back of the sofa.

“She killed Daniel.” The shell-shocked voice could be heard coming from the kitchen.

“Unless she's lying,” the voice continued. “Do you think she's lying?” There was an underlying note of pleading to her voice.

The older woman seemed to hesitate “I don't know,” she admitted. “It's possible, but...” her voice trailed away. “Why don't you 'phone in and see if they've heard anything?”

Even before he heard the sound of the door closing, Bodie knew instinctively what would happen. His eyes widened, and Doyle saw the warning but could do nothing about it. As the door to the garage closed, the internal draught caught the still open front door, and it slammed shut.

The two women froze, startled. Debbie moved first, her training taking over, bringing her out of the shock she had sunk into at the news of Daniel's death. She held her finger to her lips, drawing her gun from its holster, and indicated for Abigail to move out of the view of the door leading from the kitchen to the rest of the house. Carefully placing her feet on the tiled floor, Debbie edged closer to the door. She swung through, gun held in front of her as she scanned the hallway, looking suspiciously at the shadows. A brief movement caught her eye from the stairs and she fired.

The gunshot ringing in their ears, Bodie dived from his cover to take out the blonde woman. He brought his hands chopping down on her outstretched arms, stunning her into dropping the gun. Another gun shot rang out and Bodie felt the searing pain of a bullet burn along his upper arm, scoring him as it flew past to smack into the wall behind him. He caught sight of the older woman, Abigail, pointing a smoking Walther at him before Debbie swung at him and knocked the gun from his hand. With a growl of fury, she launched herself at him, fingers curled to scratch cat-like at his face. As he reached to restrain her hands, a low blow to his stomach made the air rush from his lungs. He saw Doyle raise his gun to shoot the older woman, but the garage door opened suddenly, and the tall dark-haired man they knew to be Luke dived from the door, taking his mother down as he went. Doyle found himself caught between keeping Luke and his mother pinned in their corner and trying to get a clear shot at Debbie to help Bodie. He fired into the kitchen, keeping Luke and his mother down while Cowley made his way to the kitchen door, leaning his back against the wall beside the door, his Webley held in both hands at head height. He nodded to Doyle, who moved out of the firing line from the kitchen.

Luke pulled his mother to safety behind a cabinet as he checked his weapon. He started to make ready to return fire when his mother caught his arm, pulling him back. He flinched from the wide-eyed manic stare.

“Kill her,” she hissed. “Get back to the garage and kill her. I want her dead.” She didn't try to disguise the hatred in her voice.

“Peterson!” A Scottish voice called from the doorway. Cowley, he guessed. “Give it up, man.”

“Cowley,” his mother hissed, and he saw the madness in her eyes.

Bodie managed to hang on to Debbie's arm despite the punishing blow to his stomach. He blocked one knee, turning to absorb the impact on his thigh rather than his delicate groin. Abruptly, he put aside the fact that his opponent was female, and instead concentrated on her undoubted ability at hand-to-hand combat. She pulled back to put more force behind a blow, and he took advantage of the opening it gave, backhanding her cruelly across the face. The blow sent her reeling into the wall, her head banging hard against the plaster. He allowed himself a split second to regain his breath from the punch to his stomach before closing the gap. A brief shimmer of light on the blade gave him the warning to jump back as she sliced in his direction. She raised her hand to throw the blade, and the loud retort of Doyle's SIG blasted from behind him.

The bullet hit her straight between the eyes, the blade tumbling from her lifeless grip as she fell to the floor, dead before the sound of the gunshot had stopped echoing through the hall.

Bodie bent down to recover his Browning, giving Doyle a quick look to acknowledge another time he had saved his life. Murphy came down the stairs, sparing a glance at the body lying at the foot of the stairs as he stepped over it. He gave an apologetic look at Bodie for his tardy arrival. The three men arranged themselves around the door to the kitchen, where Cowley stood to one side, his Webley by his side as he tried to talk to the cornered Peterson.

“Do you know who that woman is, Peterson?” Cowley asked. The dark grey eyes met each of his agents in turn, his hands gesturing quickly to give silent instructions. Bodie nodded briefly and made his way to the front door, Murphy in tow. Doyle stood the other side of the door from Cowley.

“Don't listen to him,” his mother hissed. Luke frowned; there was no way to get out of this. He was cornered, with CI5 men all around, and whatever his mother had said, the idea that there would be no repercussions from this seemed remote.

“There's nothing for us to do, mother,” he said, trying to calm her, to get through her wide-eyed panic.

He realised he had misjudged her when her eyes glazed over, her lip curling into a sneer. “Pathetic,” she spat. “You're pathetic.”

Before he could stop her, she dived for the door to the garage, getting it open before Cowley's Webley barked. She gave a cry and fell forward into the garage, the door closing behind her. Luke gave a strangled yell, stepping out from his cover instinctively. He met the cold green eyes of a dark haired CI5 man, and saw the SIG P220 aimed unerring at him.

Cowley stepped behind Doyle. “Don't give us a reason,” he warned. Eyeing the two men carefully, Luke gave a resigned sigh and stretched his arms wide.

A scream from the garage caught their attention. Before they could retaliate, Luke had barrelled past them, heading from the front door. Doyle cast an anguished look between the retreating figure and the door to the garage.

“Leave him. Bodie and Murphy are out there,” Cowley ordered curtly, heading for the door. Doyle pushed it carefully, and dived for cover as bullets splintered the wood, Abigail firing wildly in their direction.

Inside the garage, Maggie hauled painfully on her arms, trying to bring her feet back underneath her from when Abigail had kicked at her. She slipped on the puddle of congealing blood and fell again, unable to stop the cry of pain as the cuffs bit into her already cut and bleeding wrists. The jarring opened more wounds, adding to the blood already flowing down her arms from the cuts Debbie had inflicted earlier. She was weak, light-headed from loss of blood, and could see the darkening at the edges of her vision that warned of approaching unconsciousness. She winced at the loud reports of the shots Abigail fired into the door, the noise painful in the enclosed space of the garage.

Abigail stood, her normally carefully coiffured hair awry, blood staining from a shot in her shoulder. She limped painfully on what appeared to be a twisted ankle from where she had slipped when entering the garage, a slip that probably saved her life as the bullet struck her shoulder instead of anywhere vital. Even so, she would need treatment soon. A sheen of pain induced sweat coated her face, her eyes wild, skin bleached with shock. She turned hate filled eyes to the bound woman.

“You don't seriously think I'm going to let them rescue you, do you?” she snarled, raising the gun to aim it carefully at Maggie.

Maggie braced herself for the impact, wondering in the split second left to her whether Bodie or Doyle would remember her in twelve months time. In twelve days time; it seemed unlikely.

She mistook the sound of the door bursting open for the retort of Abigail's PPK, and wondered briefly why she didn't feel the burning pain of gunshot.

Abigail reeled backwards with the force of impact, falling against the car parked in the garage, her hand sliding down the car wing, leaving a smear of blood in her wake as she fell to the floor. Maggie's already swimming gaze took in Doyle and Cowley appearing in her line of sight. Doyle swore at the sight of her, but she couldn't stop the smile breaking across her face, although to the two men watching it seemed more of a grimace. Cowley slid his gun back in its holster, moving to help her stand. Doyle took the other side of her, not knowing where to put his hands on the abused skin, not seeing anywhere that didn't appear to be cut and bleeding.

The sound of gunshots from outside brought his gaze to meet Cowley's.

“Get outside, lad. See if you can't take Peterson alive.”

“He doesn't know,” Maggie croaked, her voice hoarse and breaking. She met Doyle's concerned gaze with eyes wide and pleading. “Please – Luke doesn't know.” Catching her meaning, he nodded once, giving Cowley another glance as he ran from the garage.

Cowley fished in his pockets for his handcuff keys, sliding an arm around her waist to take her weight as he undid the one arm. He waited until she was steady on her feet before reaching for the other. She saw the concern in the dark eyes, and tried to smile again. He saw relief in her face turn to horror, her eyes widening. Before he could react, she reached into his jacket and pulled out his Webley, firing it over his shoulder with a smooth action before he had time to even process what was happening.

He turned in time to see Abigail thrown back against the door of the parked car, a neat hole drilled between the dark brown eyes.

He turned back, feeling Maggie slump lower in his grasp. He took the gun from her limp fingers and quickly undid the remaining handcuff, gently lowering her to the floor. Her face relaxed into a dreamy smile.

“That's better,” she whispered, before unconsciousness claimed her.

Cowley checked her pulse, feeling it fluttering beneath his fingers, before the sound of gunfire from outside distracted him.

 

 

Bodie and Murphy made their way to the garage doors, alert for any attack from the house as they crept passed the windows. They could differentiate between the loud explosion of Cowley's Webley and the bark of Doyle's SIG. A different sound betrayed the PPK of Abigail. Satisfied that the fight was going in his partner's favour, Bodie tried the large double doors of the garage. He slammed his hand against the wall in frustration; there was no external handle to the doors. The garage was obviously opened from inside.

The sound of running feet on the gravel alerted both men to Luke Peterson leaving the house. He slid to the side of the blue Rover as Murphy fired off shots in warning. Luke opened the door, using it as cover as he loosed four shots in rapid succession. Bodie noticed with the benefit of experience that the shots were aimed high. It seemed the MI5 man was still unwilling to go as far as his co-conspirators.

Murphy fired again, shot peppering the side of the Rover. Luke crawled inside the vehicle and the unmistakable sound of the V8 engine growled into life. Luke crouched low over the steering wheel, steering away from Murphy's fire until the tall agent no longer had the vehicle in his sights.

Seeing the car gain speed, Bodie sprinted out of hiding to stand in front of the car, relying on the MI5 man's conscience to stop him. Unfortunately, Luke was driving on instinct, his line of sight spoiled by his hiding under the dashboard as he made his escape. Bodie realised his mistake and pulled the trigger on his Browning to shatter the windscreen and try to deflect the car before it reached him.

Nothing happened.

The awful realisation that his normally reliable weapon had chosen that particular moment to jam did not have the time to turn to sickness in his stomach as the car lurched towards him. Without time to do anything but ready for impact, he noticed Luke's head belatedly rise into view, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of Bodie right in front of his bonnet. Bodie's hands caught the front of the car, trying to leap onto the bonnet before it caught his legs. He rolled off the car, landing face first in the gravel, as the car slammed to a halt. Bodie rolled onto his back, trying to work out from the various pains assailing him what damage had been done.

He heard Murphy's cry as he called to the MI5 man to drop his weapon, grabbing the man and throwing him against the bonnet of the car, disarming him and checking for other weapons. The sound of running crunched through the gravel. The sight of Doyle silhouetted against the blue sky filled Bodie's vision. The curly haired head lowered to listen for a heartbeat.

“Never knew you cared, mate,” Bodie said, dissolving into painful coughing.

The wide set green eyes glared at him before softening into a contagious grin. His hands skimmed cautiously over his partner, checking for injuries.

“One of these days, I won't bother,” Doyle growled, pretending annoyance.

“Yeah, but not today, eh mate,” Bodie rasped, before falling back into blackness.

 

 

Bodie sat back on the hospital bed, trying to focus on the pretty nurse carefully cleaning the cut above the sardonically curved eyebrow. He relaxed at the scent of jasmine and sandalwood that surrounded her, breathing deeply. He winced, more to get a reaction from her than in response to anything she had done.

She retreated slightly, allowing him a better view of her face, a slight frown creasing her features.

“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. She had a soft accent. He searched through his memory to place it.

He smiled, wincing in real discomfort as he pulled at his cut mouth. She dabbed at the area carefully and he looked down at her name tag.

“That's a beautiful accent, Nurse Wagner,” he purred. “Black Forest?”

>

She blushed prettily, her dark brown eyes widening in surprise. “Why yes. You have a good ear, Mr. Bodie.”

“If you like that, you'll love the rest of me,” he said with a cheeky grin, no longer caring about the cut lip.

At the foot of the bed, Doyle gave an exasperated sigh. “You'd better hope for your own sake he can be released today,” he said with pretended severity.

The nurse turned to give him a conspiratorial smile. “If he gets too much, I'll see if I can find a tranquilliser from somewhere.”

Doyle gave a wide grin. He raised an admonishing finger and addressed Bodie. “You'd better watch yourself, mate. Sounds like you've bitten off more than you can chew here.”

“Oh I dunno.” Bodie's dark blue eyes glittered with amusement as his gaze slid over the pretty nurse. “I've always had a big mouth.”

“Can't argue with that,” Doyle agreed.

He left Bodie, stripped to the waist, as the nurse wrapped his bruised ribs in crepe bandage. Her hands slid over the smooth, well-muscled skin, soothing as she bandaged him. Bodie closed his eyes, concentrating on the delicate touch instead of the discomfort.

Doyle's long legs brought him away from where Bodie was being tended, to a room where considerably more medical staff were in attendance. He leaned against the doorway, watching with solemn eyes as nurses cleaned the blood from the unconscious Maggie while stitching the long cuts that stretched from shoulder to wrist. Bags of blood and saline hung alongside the bed, tubes taking the fluid from the bags down the thin plastic lines into Maggie's still hand. She had not regained consciousness since shooting Abigail Peterson.

Doyle turned to the man sat outside the room. Cowley looked ashen, his normally pristine clothing stained with Maggie's blood.

“Have they said anything?” Doyle asked gently.

Cowley met the wide set green eyes of his agent, noting the concern in his expression. “Internal bruising. She's been beaten, whipped, cut.” Cowley's voice was dry, relating the injuries with no discernible emotion.

“Blood loss?” he asked.

“Severe. They were careful. They didn't open any arteries, but even so.” Cowley's brusque manner faded as he looked down at his hands as though expecting to see them still covered in Maggie's blood. “She needs stitches to the cuts in both arms. Cracked ribs. Stitches to her mouth. There's some burning, which fits in with the car battery and leads we saw at the garage.”

Doyle hissed, understanding what each and every injury signified and knowing the unspoken story behind it.

“What about Peterson?”

Cowley's gaze sharpened. “All he knows is Magpie killed his father.”

“Yeah, and six other coppers,” Doyle interrupted.

Cowley stood up quickly, approaching Doyle with a warning look in the cold grey eyes. “If you think I would protect a cop-killer, Doyle...”

“No, I know you wouldn't,” Doyle said quickly, gesturing dismissively with one hand. Cowley subsided into silence, glaring at the agent. “Look – I'll come to terms with it,” Doyle conceded. “What about Peterson?”

Cowley's glare did not lessen. “You leave him to me, laddie,” he growled.

 

 

Doyle met Bodie coming out of his room, his jacket slung over his arm. The broad smile Bodie wore was contagious.

“You're looking happy. She shoot you up with something?”

“Nah, I'm high on life, mate.” Bodie grinned and waved a piece of paper under Doyle's nose.

“Another 'phone number?”

“Like bees to honey.”

“Yeah. Or flies to something else.” Doyle ignored the affronted look Bodie effected. “You got a thing about women in uniform?”

Bodie waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “A nurse and a copper, mate. One with handcuffs, and the other to take me pulse.”

Doyle shook his head wearily, following his partner from the hospital. “You're incorrigible.”

 

 

Maggie slowly surfaced from dreamless sleep, vaguely aware of sounds of voices and footsteps in the distance, and the gentle hum of machinery nearby. She tried to moisten her parched lips, but her mouth was too dry. Her eyelids fluttered, a crease marring her forehead in distress at the slight discomfort. She resisted opening her eyes, in case the familiarity of the sounds and smells around her was just an illusion.

“Here. Drink this.”

At the sound of the voice, so soft and so close to her, her eyes shot open. Doyle leaned over her, a familiar silhouette in the darkened room. She felt a straw between her lips and sucked at it, taking a few attempts before she managed to muster up the energy. She saw Doyle turn to the side, and he returned with a swab, wetting it in the cup and running the moistened cotton over her lips. It was bliss.

He smiled down at her. She returned it, starting to realise she felt clean at last, without the drying, stretched feeling of dried blood over her.

“How're you feeling?” he asked gently.

“How's Bodie?” she whispered, buying time.

“I asked first,” he said, a note of reproachfulness in his voice. He knew she was avoiding the question.

She gave a minute movement that may have been a shrug. “I haven't quite worked out how I'm feeling,” she admitted.

He brought his chair closer to her, sitting down so his face was level with hers. “I left Bodie trying to decide between a policewoman and a nurse,” he said. “Last I heard, he was leaving it to whoever happened to finish their shift first.”

“That sounds most fair and equitable,” Maggie said solemnly, the beginning of humour creasing her eyes.

He smiled at the positive reaction, relieved more than he could admit that she had regained consciousness. He had sat for hours watching her sleep, the nursing staff occasionally bringing him reassurances and refreshments in equal amount. It was after visiting hours, but the private room and the CI5 badge meant he could stay without affecting the rest of the ward.

“Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly. He reached out to take her hand in his, gently stroking the back of her fingers. Her arms were bandaged from shoulder to wrist, covering the terrible lines of stitches. She could feel them throbbing beneath the bandages.

“Do you have a death wish?” he said.

She regarded him with dark eyes. “No,” she said softly at last. “I don't have a bloody death wish, Ray. Don't be so daft.” He ignored the gentle teasing in her voice, his fingers still stroking her hand gently. She found the contact reassuring. “Neither do I have a martyr complex,” she continued. She watched him carefully, seeing the serious look in the dark green eyes. “It was to buy time, that's all. And to flush out the leaks,” she said at last. “You saved me.”

He looked away, concentrating instead on the hand he held so gently. “What about Luke?” she asked at last.

He continued examining her fingers, running his fingertips absent-mindedly over them. It was the only part of her he felt safe touching. About the only part of her not cut and bruised. “Cowley's sorting him out,” he answered. “He hasn't said anything else.”

“It won't be an easy thing to sort out. Three dead people, and me back from the dead after all these years.” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but neither of them found it particularly amusing. “It's like a Greek tragedy,” she added.

“How's that?”

“Oedipus. Except he killed his father and only married his mother.”

The green eyes looked up to her face again, but she was watching his hand on hers. “You knew then?”

She swallowed with difficulty. “Well, she let some things slip. A few comments.” She avoided his gaze. “Luke knew nothing about it. I don't want him to.”

“He should know he's got a sister.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes sharp and determined for the first time since she'd opened them. “A sister he tried to kill,” she said sharply. She looked away from him again, dropping her eyes to his hand once more. “I murdered his father and his mother. I'm hardly going to make his Christmas card list. It's taking sibling rivalry a bit far.”

“He needs to know,” Doyle insisted.

She did not answer straightaway, lifting her fingers to twine them with his. “Yes,” she breathed at last. “Eventually.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You killed your mother,” he said softly, watching as her eyes lifted to his once more. “There's got to be something you want to talk about.”

“I killed a woman I didn't know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “A woman who simply gave birth to me over 30 years ago. There's more to being a mother than that. Besides, it was a choice between her and Cowley.” She gave the same subtle twitch that could have been a shrug had she been strong enough. “That's no choice. Cowley's the nearest thing to a father I've got.”

He found there was nothing he could say to the open emotion in her face. His grasp on her fingers tightened briefly before resuming his soothing stroking.

She smiled. “Tell him that and I'll kill you,” she threatened softly. She closed her eyes, relaxing back into the pillows with a tired sigh. “You asked me once if there's anything I regret,” she said. “There is one thing.”

“What's that?” he asked gently when the silence became too long.

“I let him down. Cowley. And – ” She hesitated again, and Doyle sensed the same lingering secret from Hong Kong – the thing she never seemed to allow herself to think about. “Cowley,” she said at last. Doyle knew she had repeated the name rather than mention the mysterious someone who seemed to matter so much she couldn’t bear to name them. “I let him down badly,” she finished, leaving Doyle to wonder whether she was still speaking about Cowley. She opened her eyes, staring blindly at the foot of the bed. “If there's one thing I could do, one thing I would change, it would be that. To make him proud of me for once.”

“I think he is. I think he always has been,” Doyle said, believing it to be true. He shook her hand gently, bringing her gaze back up to meet his. “What about us?” he asked, his clear green eyes candid and serious.

She held his gaze, unwilling to look away. He could see her uncertainty. “I'll always be a cop killer, Ray,” she said softly. “That's not going to change.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it's best viewed in context.” He watched her carefully, wondering what was going through her mind. The only thing he could tell from those indigo eyes were that she wasn't certain of anything, but him in particular. “What do you want?” he asked instead.

It seemed to be a question she was more able to cope with. “I want to be me,” she said softly.

“And that is?”

Again that soft almost-shrug. “I don't know. That's just it. I want to find out.” She caught his fingers, stilling their motion and ignoring the sharp pain the movement in her arm caused. “I can't think about anyone else,” she said softly. “I can't think of any 'us' – not with you or anyone. Not until I know how to be me.”

He saw the quiet determination in the dark eyes, and nodded slowly. The grip on his fingers relaxed.

“Well, when you've decided, you look me up,” he said solemnly, his eyes glittering in the dimly lit room. He lifted her hand and kissed her palm gently before placing it back on the bed. “I know who you are, Maggie,” he said, releasing her hand and standing up. “I like who you are,” he added in a whisper. He bent down and pressed warm dry lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes at the contact, as though willing it to remain. When he pulled away, she opened her eyes again, tears spilling over the lashes and running down her cheek. He brushed them away gently, giving her a warm smile, before turning and leaving the room.

She watched him leave, trying to follow the sound of his footsteps as they receded into the distance and remonstrating with herself for being such a fool.

The figure silhouetted in the doorway gave her a surprise, until the movement betrayed his identity. He limped slowly into the room, taking the seat vacated by Doyle and looking down into her bruised face with a smile.

“I wanted to talk to you, lassie,” Cowley said softly.

 

 

  
 **Epilogue**  


Bodie held the door open but Doyle showed no inclination to be the first to step through. He viewed the stark, imposing building with schoolboy-like ill humour.

“What did we do to deserve two whole weeks of Macklin?” he complained.

Bodie's blue eyes widened in surprise. “We? What's this 'we' crap?” He cuffed Doyle none too gently on his upper arm. “You're the one who nailed the Cow's God-daughter through the mattress.” Doyle's green eyes flashed a warning that Bodie chose to ignore. “If anyone's to blame, it's you. The only surprise is it's taken him this long to get his own back. Mind you, four months' surveillance at the arse end of the country was bad enough,” he finished blithely, as though his partner's darkening mood was nothing to do with him.

He studied the wounded expression on Doyle's face and relented slightly. “You not heard from her then?”

Doyle seemed interested in his trainers, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't have to ask who Bodie meant. It had been a question raised every so often in the last five months since they had last seen Magpie. “No,” he said quietly.

Bodie's look became sympathetic. “You should have said something a bit sooner,” he said. “Someone like Maggie – well,” he gave a shrug. “Y'know, they don't need telling twice.”

Doyle raised his face to meet Bodie's appraising gaze. “Didn't tell her once,” he said. “Didn't get the chance.”

Bodie sighed. “C'mon,” he said, pulling Doyle through the door by his sleeve. “I reckon you deserve having Macklin beat the living snot out of you.” He followed after the slight figure of his partner. “You might even enjoy it,” he added with an evil grin.

Doyle was silent while they checked in, only opening his mouth to give his name and number. They barely had time to throw their rucksacks into the sparse, Spartan room they had been allocated before changing into track suits and joining the other half a dozen agents who made their way reluctantly into the main hall.

Feet shuffled impatiently as they stood waiting for Macklin and Towser to appear. Bodie looked around, judging and assessing the others sent for mandatory evaluation, recognising some faces, noticing tell-tale shifts in others, betraying limbs weakened by action or injury. Doyle remained still, legs apart, arms folded over his wiry chest, his head angled down, lost in thought. So deep into himself was he that he missed the soft chuckle of his partner. It was only when the voice, clear and strong, rang out through the hall, that the starkly angular but undeniably handsome head whipped up, jade green eyes wide with surprise.

“Listen up, ladies.” Magpie's voice echoed through the room, commanding silence and absolute attention. Her dark blue eyes scanned the men in front of her with sparkling amusement in their indigo depths. Her gaze swept over Bodie and Doyle without any perceptible glimmer of recognition, but Bodie thought he detected a subtle nod in their direction and a flash of softness in the hard eyes as they looked at Doyle.

She gave a wolfish smile, standing ramrod straight, legs apart, her arms held behind her back. The lines of scars could be seen tracing their way from under the black vest she wore and down both arms. Bodie remembered the red of her blood and the whiteness of hospital sheets.

Her gaze travelled over the eight men before her.

“You do not know me. You will think that means you can try and push to see what you can get away with. Because I'm not 16 stone and six foot tall.” The agents shifted nervously, betraying the truth of her words. “It would be a mistake,” she said, her voice laden with threat.

“My name -” She paused and a brief smile lit her face as she met Doyle's green eyes. “is Maggie Draven.”


End file.
